


Tiger's Eye

by revel_ry



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: A bit of swearing, Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - Restaurant, Angst, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Drama, Good Guys, M/M, Mentions of Anxiety, Of a Certain Kind, Other Ships Not Mentioned in Tags, Romance, Sexual Content, Slow Burn, age differences NCC, but individual moral ambiguity, not really a love triangle, other HQ ensemble - Freeform, the wrong cats
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-21
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:27:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 28
Words: 131,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26034181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/revel_ry/pseuds/revel_ry
Summary: Ennoshita sighs next to him, brushing his hair back, and his voice comes out low in both volume and tone. “You’re too smart already.”“For what?” Kenma pleads. “Is there something about this job that makes everyone who gets offered this position q—”“All bets on you. You’re a great kid,” Ennoshita says quietly, intensely.They look towards the back hallway, and the rest of the kitchen cast their eyes down firmly on their prep work as the door opens for the final entrance of the night....Kozume Kenma—status: beggar. Kenma moved to Tokyo for university four years ago, but since graduation, he has yet to land a job. Finally, he’s been accepted to work as a server at one of Tokyo’s finest restaurants: Tiger’s Eye. It should be smooth sailing from here on out, but things don’t go as planned when the executive chef enters the scene.Ten months ago, Kuroo Tetsurou, executive chef of Tiger’s Eye restaurant, received his third Michelin Star—the highest culinary honor. Since then, he’s become hotheaded, jaded, and often drunk, reviews are getting less positive, and he can’t hold down a new server to save his life. Sunday, none the wiser, Kozume Kenma enters the scene.
Relationships: Akaashi Keiji/Bokuto Koutarou, Haiba Lev/Yaku Morisuke, Kozume Kenma/Kuroo Tetsurou, Kuroo Tetsurou/Tsukishima Kei, Tendou Satori/Ushijima Wakatoshi
Comments: 729
Kudos: 615
Collections: maazeesfavs





	1. patent leather is for poor people, Kenma. pick calfskin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to the fic! Updates are approximately weekly. Regarding the non-canon age differences, I mean that Kenma and Lev are the same age, Bokuto is a year older than Kuroo, who’s the same age as Akaashi, etc. It’s all in the fic.  
> The goal is never to create perfect humans. I wanted to work with adult characters who each have their own individual moral compass, and I hope it comes off as somewhat relatable in their ambiguous maturity, as adults tend to have. I know I’ve personally been to so many places the characters go in this fic. And this is the only time I’ll address that! DD:DNE.  
> I genuinely appreciate you choosing to read this, I hope you enjoy, and I earnestly thank you for your patronage.
> 
> Follow or visit me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/revel__ry) if you'd like! :)
> 
> [Info for artists who will be doing/have done works for this fic]:  
> Kenma portrait: @yankasmiles (Twt/Tumblr), @punkguchi (Insta)  
> Kuroo and Kenma at the pass [Ch 4] | Terushima: @kurr_dappya (Twt/Insta), @kurr-dappya (Tumblr)  
> A toast: @beestinggs (Twt)

Kenma always considered himself a handheld games kind of guy. He also always wanted to live alone, and nothing sounded like a better coming-of-age gift to himself than a small, quiet studio with just enough room for a wet bath, a bed, a dresser, and a hotplate. But if moving deeper into the city for university taught him anything, it’s that suburbs money gets you nowhere in Tokyo proper. And that taking the hit of at least one roommate was going to have to become a reality.

Fortune either favored him or pitied him in his job-search wandering and gave him a twenty-eight square meter studio with plenty of space for two twin beds, a kotatsu table in between them, a bathroom that actually accommodates the arm span of someone closing in on a hundred ninety centimeters, an admittedly cramped but functional kitchen, and space left over for a dual-monitored TV stand alphabetically lined with plastic game cases, two consoles, and wires wrapped and color-coded with electrical tape. All of that, and—

“ _Shred them bloody_.”

—this guy. Red hair pushed back from his face with his headset, wired eyes nearly missing pupils though they’re calmly lidded when he’s not in a game, still wearing his blazer and tie from his assistant professor day job, neat freak, germophobic, and surprisingly domestic: Tendou “Don’t Call Me Satori” Satori. Kenma’s first impression upon moving in two days late and meeting Tendou in the doorway: nocturnal, the lovechild of Pennywise and The Rake, and chill with an occasional sadistic streak. He was wrong about none of those. When he couldn’t think of what to say first to his new roommate and stupidly, anxiously asked, “So does your hair naturally do that?” Tendou just smiled, tilted his head, and said, “Guess.”

Kenma blows a strand of hair out of his eyes and glances at the disinfectant wipes perpetually on the TV stand. When they shut off for the night, Tendou will take two or three and hit every centimeter of controllers, consoles, and screen. His sadistic streaks are therapeutically channeled toward bacteria and dust, and the kitchen and bathroom are always spotless—even after the rich boyfriend visits from the countryside.

“I _told_ you guys we’re supposed to be going west,” Yaku says in their headsets. “You led us right into enemy territory, Lev. And stood there flailing your arms.”

Lev’s frantic voice: “Jeez, I’m sorry!”

“Then we mow them down,” Tendou chirps. His tongue darts out and licks his upper lip, bloodthirsty. “And we take one hostage for good fun.”

“That’s not even in the mechanics,” Kenma says.

“Oh, god, we’re gonna get slaughtered,” Lev moans.

“What time is it?” Tendou asks, unblinking eyes glued to the screen in the dark even as he angles his face towards Kenma to ask the question.

Kenma brings his avatar around a broken concrete wall to avoid the bullets Lev invited over from his and Yaku’s place in Yokohama, and he turns to look at the digital clock on their microwave. “Almost eleven,” he says as Yaku says the same.

Kenma should be going to bed soon, but who is he kidding. And anyway, Lev and Yaku both work transitional shifts at their hospital from three to eleven a.m., so they just woke up recently as it is. Their schedules match with Tendou’s sleepless nature and Kenma’s irresponsibility.

Tendou’s lips curl upward at the corners. “Then we’ve got reinforcements coming in soon.” His avatar—female, disproportionate, not enough body coverage—chucks a grenade as Lev sighs in relief into his mic. But then Kenma watches Lev’s character snap backward and he hits the ground motionless with a clean headshot. Lev wails.

“Jesus,” Kenma mutters, pulling up sights on his gun and looking around.

Tendou pauses at the death of his teammate, and his eyes narrow. “ _I’ll break you in two.”_ He digs his fingers into his controller and Kenma can hear the creak of plastic even through his headphones.

“Avenge me,” Lev says dramatically, and Yaku says, “Just respawn.”

“So.” Tendou sits up straighter and smiles brightly. Kenma glances at him searching his inventory for something. “Any word on that waiter thing?”

“Yeah, dude, how’s that going?” Yaku asks.

Kenma sighs. His job-search wandering has led him down multiple dead-end paths so far, each of them reported to his friends in pitiful earnest. As the two people who have known him the longest, and who understand why his disposition is the way it is, why a literature major in university was such a good fit, and why neither his job search nor anything else in his life—even video games—have ever been all that ruthless, Lev and Yaku are always supportive of him, even through the countless rejections. Even Tendou—after a minorly but regrettably drunk night in their room with Stravinsky playing as their soundtrack while Kenma spilled his uneventful life story—understands him and has become a true member of their group in-game and in real life. Every dead-end path gets trudged back up, back to the beginning and the classifieds, because the three of them push Kenma to do his best and to overcome himself as he has been doing slowly since he first met Lev back in high school year one.

His latest attempt, after coming to terms with how useless an undergraduate degree in literature actually was regardless of how suited he was to it, has been a serving job at one of the restaurants in the city. He put in his application last week, and honestly picked it because the position was open and there’s a train that will take him really close to it. He doesn’t even know what it pays, but at this point, three months after graduating and with the dark at the end of the savings account tunnel closing in, he’s a beggar, and he really doesn’t have the time left to choose. It required a résumé, ID photo, and two letters of reference from a professor and his boss from the library where he worked part-time during uni, and not much else was asked for. Plus, the words no interview. immediate hire. at the bottom of the application guidelines weren’t exactly off-putting. It probably just means that if he does terribly on his first day, he’ll get dusted out without an hour’s worth of pay. Considering how upscale this restaurant is—three Michelin Stars and what he hears is a nationally-recognized founding executive chef—he imagines the turnover rate for the most menial job offered there could be pretty high.

An article or two, when he looked the place up, mentioned something about a decline in the restaurant’s popularity over the past some months, especially in relation to a rival restaurant ( _Was it called Blue? The Blue? Deep Blue?_ ) hardly a five-minute drive away in the same ward. But he got tired and figured he was going to apply for the job regardless, if only to just get Tendou off his back for being on his back so much. He’ll probably have better chances of getting hired if the place isn’t the absolute number one.

With literally no experience working at a restaurant, maybe he won’t cut it, maybe he will. The bubble he’d been living in during school burst a while ago. He might as well try anything—push himself to do so.

If he gets hired in the first place.

“I’m still waiting on an answer,” he tells everyone. “Acceptance or rejection.”

“I keep telling him to apply to more than one place at a time,” Tendou says. “Since he’s totally mooching off me at this point.”

“You know how much I’d give to have a solid teaching job like you? You’re salaried for four and a half million yen a year,” Yaku says. “And it’s still weird having Thursday and Sunday off.”

“Try Thursday and Monday,” Lev says. “I never get a weekend.”

“The pay differential is nice, though.”

“That’s the truth.”

Kenma can hear the two of them high-fiving in Yokohama.

Tendou snorts. “You guys hated school. And patient care suits you.” He pouts out his lip. “Man, I really thought I had a rocket launcher somewhere.”

“Good luck though, Kenma,” Lev says. His avatar is back up and running. “Tiger’s Eye is supposed to be, like, mega.”

Yaku: “Yeah, you’ll probably make more than any of us. Even Satori. You could totally ditch him.”

Not Satori, calmly: “I’ll punt you into the sky.”

An enemy avatar appears on the screen and hits Lev over the head with a shovel.

Lev yelps like it happened in real life, then says, “Aw, come on!” At least he didn’t die this time.

Yaku growls out, “ _Chto za khuynya? Idi syuda._ ” His accent is best when he’s angry. He pulls out a handgun and starts firing.

“What was _that_?” Tendou asks about what Kenma understood, after years of friendship with both of Lev’s halves, to be _What the fuck? Come here._

“You’re getting better, Suke!” Lev says. “Defending my honor!”

“In our latest development of learning Russian by cohabitant osmosis,” Yaku explains, “swearing.”

Kenma laughs, a little puff of air.

An icon pings up on the screen and Tendou clicks him in. A deep voice comes into the chat: “Enemy camp—target acquired. Duck and cover.”

“Make ‘em suffer, babe,” Tendou says, a manic grin on his features.

As Wakatoshi releases a massive IED somewhere in the distance and bullets stop hailing down on them, Kenma’s phone lights up next to where he’s crisscross on the floor. It’s a call from a number he doesn’t recognize.

“Bowing out for a second,” he tells them. He exits, pulls his headset down around his neck, and answers the call. “Hello?”

“I’m calling to reach Kozume Kenma.”

“This is him.”

“My name is Akaashi Keiji. I’m the manager at Tiger’s Eye.”

Restaurants run late hours, Kenma supposes. He blinks, ready to be told no, and starts thinking about what other places he might want to apply to next, that maybe if he just tries a bookstore or something, he might at least appear to have some credentials. In his mind, he’s lacing his boots to trudge back up the path.

He waves a hand at Tendou, points to his phone, and mouths _Waiter thing._ “Oh, thank you for calling.”

“Of course,” the manager says. “I wanted to let you know that we’re accepting your application. Our executive chef expects you to begin tomorrow.”

Kenma blinks again. Tendou cocks his head at him, somehow managing to continue a melee with a stray enemy onscreen without looking.

“If that would be possible,” the manager adds as an afterthought courtesy.

Possible? Like, as if he has plans tomorrow? _Say something_. “Oh.”

Tendou tilts his head further, cartoonishly so. He lifts an eyebrow as he says, “Yeah, sic ‘em, Waka. The bigger knife,” into his mic, and offers a questioning thumbs-up.

“It is. What time should I be there?” Kenma asks, and Tendou grins.

The manager says it all at once like it’s well-rehearsed, a block of text through the receiver: “You’ll be working with our senior server for the night. Dress code is strict, including shoes, or you will be sent away. Please see the application for any questions regarding that. Service begins at six o’clock sharp. You’re expected no later than three PM for house prep, and _no later_ carries heavy emphasis. The chef considers punctuality to mean early. If you’re driving, do not park in front of the building. Be prepared to follow all orders given to you and to defer to the chef in any instance regardless of the circumstance.”

Okay…is he getting himself into something? Does it even matter when he’s currently status: beggar? The restaurant must not have three Michelin Stars for nothing.

_Just try anything._

“Oh, um, I’m—not driving,” Kenma says. “And two-thirty. Understood.”

“Very good.” The manager takes an audible breath. “The final thing I have to make sure of is that you are prepared to make working at this restaurant part of your lifestyle. Many people in the business underestimate the dedication it takes. If you have other obligations of any kind that require a significant portion of your day, they need to be reconsidered. This includes any second jobs, school, hobbies, relationships, even a pet. Consider what you would have to put aside, and what you’d be willing to give up. We need to know that you have both the time and the capacity available to make this position your priority.”

Sounds strict, but isn’t that how every job works? And like Lev said, Tiger’s Eye is mega. Besides—the whole point of this job, aside from money, is for the sake of doing it. That was the most important thing the high school psychologist told him back in his first year: _Keep yourself busy_.

In the end, he just wants to do something with his life.

So right now, he just needs to say something that doesn’t make him sound like an absolute deadbeat.

He clears his throat. “I can’t imagine I’d be doing anything else, sir.”

There’s a slight airy chuckle on the other end of the line, barely audible. “Then we’ll see you tomorrow afternoon.”

Kenma hardly gets out a habitual bow of the head and a _Thank you very much_ before the line dies. He lowers his phone from his ear and looks at his roommate. “I…guess I need some new clothes. And shoes.”

Tendou gets to his feet and grabs the disinfectant wipes from next to the TV, holding his mic in his fingertips. “Waka, you’re taking over. Kenma and I are late-night shopping.”

* * *

**[Please enjoy my series of random in-story headcanons at the end of each chapter!]**

**HC: Tendou’s classic work attire is a pair of fitted black pants, a white button-up tucked in, a grey blazer, and a blue tie (think Fukurodani uniform with no stripes and a darker blue). He wears his hair up almost all the time, though he’s seriously considering buzzing it all off but hasn’t brought the idea up with Ushiwaka yet since he knows Waka likes his hair. He holds a master’s degree in chemistry. He’s loved in the physical sciences department and notorious around campus; incoming first years to his class hear about “the red guy” ahead of time from rumors and former students. Students of his often ask to have lunch with him just to get a glimpse into his mind. Last year, he won the excellence award for assistant professors. His waking time before he requires a full night’s sleep is around sixty hours with occasional micro-naps (about eight minutes each).**


	2. our challengers are about to enter the ring. would you like to place a bet?

He realizes when he gets off the train a few blocks from the restaurant that he doesn’t know which door he’s supposed to walk in.

At 2:24, the sun is beaming and the full-black outfit he got last night, while fairly well-fitting with Tendou’s eye, soaks in heat. His skin is too hot, his calfskin shoes aren’t broken in, and his high hopes are diminishing, if they existed in the first place. But it was lucky that he got this position at all. He should be ecstatic.

It might be a little more cinematic if he was walking up at night. Around him are all the deadened neon signs and display screens that look average in the daylight. Upon moving here, he realized that the novel magic of the big city fades at nearly the same rate the lights do as the sun comes up. The façades of the buildings, while colorful, aren’t exactly vibrant and intoxicating. Even Tokyo was grown from concrete.

And as he thinks about what door he should be using as an employee, he also realizes that he has never actually _seen_ this restaurant before. His university was in the opposite direction from their apartment.

He brushes his hair back from the sides of his face and keeps walking. He’s in a nicer area of the city, people in skirts and buttoned shirts on Sunday lunches, buildings made of expensive material and curving architecture and unnecessarily big windows. Not far away, the Tokyo Tower is somewhere, but he can’t see it over the buildings and his below-average height.

_One day_ , he keeps telling himself. His heart has intermittent moments of racing and slowing back down. _Just make it one day and you’ll be in. Something new. Try anything._

What he wouldn’t give to be at home playing Division or Black Ops with Tendou right now. But Tendou is at his university teaching people how to _actually_ blow things up, and making money while doing it.

A crosswalk brings Kenma around the façade of some multistory business tower, and it finally comes into view: full black exterior, a long black stone walkway and steps leading up to tinted double doors with iron handles. The insignia on and above them is, aptly, a tiger’s eye—yellow, orange, and red tones, fiery, the pupil dark and piercing in the light. Kenma imagines nighttime again, the building a block of darkness reflecting the neon colors around it back like asphalt after the rain, the eye glowing orange except for the well of void in the middle, rich people and foreigners coming up the walkway while valets or their drivers take their cars elsewhere, wearing actual gowns and maybe even tuxedos, or at least not the kind of department store suit Kenma wore to multiple university meetings and a few job interviews that obviously didn’t work out.

He stops for a moment, looking up at Tiger’s Eye, uncomfortable feet planted on the sidewalk. Tendou looked up the menu last night while Kenma was trying on these pants, and the prices of the dishes seem outrageous. People apparently wait months to get a table for two. Even over the phone, the manager seems like he’d run a very tight ship. And the executive chef is highly renowned from what Kenma knows, which isn’t really that much. Actually, he doesn’t even know the chef’s name—only that he runs one of the city’s best. Even if the popularity and critique isn’t at its highest right now, the place is still impressive. Fancy. A little intimidating. Way out of his zone and league. And the chef in all his punctuality is probably no different.

_Try anything._

2:29. Right—so is the front door locked?

The manager ( _Akaashi. Akaashi Keiji. Manager? Sir? Just Akaashi?_ ) said that if he was driving, he shouldn’t park in front. Using the back door is his better bet, then. He cuts the corner of the office building and swings around the side of Tiger’s Eye, looking up at the black material—shiny but not too shiny, maybe some kind of tempered metal. When he rounds the back corner, crossing over onto the property, there’s a small employee parking lot. The back wall of the restaurant has a delivery port and three unmarked doors.

_Welcome to the game show! In front of you are three doors. Behind one is you getting embarrassed, behind another is you getting fired, but behind the remaining door is the ultimate prize: saving face. So, contestant. Which do you choose?_

He stands there, executive dysfunction, hands by his sides.

The door in the middle opens.

The man who steps out is somewhere over one-eighty-five, and bigger than Kenma. His black and grey dyed hair is styled back from his face in a tapered undercut pushed back and to the side in a 2/8 ratio

“Hey—new kid!” He displays an arm out and grins. “Choosing your door?”

Kenma bows a little and starts toward him. “Thank you.”

“Saw you deciding out front. Well done with the uniform,” the guy says. He stands with his back against the open door, arms crossed, one toe propped on the concrete of the sidewalk and Kenma notices black sneakers, then realizes he’s also in a navy T-shirt. The only thing seemingly uniform about his outfit is tailored black pants.

“Oh. My roommate helped me out,” Kenma says for some reason.

“Damn, I remember roommate days. Not if you stick around here, kid. By the way, that one’s the electric,” he says, thumbing at door number three, “and that one takes you into the loading for cold storage.” He points to door number one, next to the delivery port.

Kenma reaches him, tilting his head up to meet auburn eyes and an easy smile. Is he another waiter? A chef? _The_ chef? Why didn’t Kenma do any research? “I see. Um, so…”

“Bokuto. Nice to meet you.” He puts a fist out.

It catches Kenma so off guard, expecting to have to bow or at least shake hands, that he glitches as he brings his hand up, forgetting for a second to make a fist of his own. He bumps. “Kozume Kenma. Nice to meet you.”

“Way to be _on time_.” Bokuto puts up air quotes around the words and rolls his eyes. “You’ll get used to it. Just nix three o’clock from your mind altogether. We all get here between now and then, anyway. And hey—Akaashi gets here at two.” He motions to a Lexus sedan parked in the lot. “At least you’re not him.” He laughs.

“So, we call him Akaashi? Akaashi-san, or?” Kenma asks, then realizes how informal and ignorant it sounded.

Bokuto doesn’t bat an eyelash. “Yeah, don’t bother with honorifics much here. Even with him. He started out wanting us to call him manager, but I’ve always just called him Akaashi, and it caught on with the guys.”

Kenma nods. “Excuse me for having to ask, but are you the executive chef?” He prepares himself mentally to bow low, apologize and defer, or whatever it was Akaashi said on the phone.

Bokuto’s eyebrows go up, and then he belts out a laugh. “Hell no, I’m not. I love that you haven’t even looked the guy up. You’ve got something coming.” Kenma warms a little as Bokuto puts his hand on his chest and adopts a poor French accent. “I’m the _entremetier_ and _poissonnier_. AKA, I do apps, sides, and seafood. App seafood, anyway. The most in the kitchen, for sure.” He laughs again, shaking his head. “Man, the guys will really get a kick out of this.”

“Something coming? Trouble?” Kenma can’t help but ask. Maybe, if the chef is a stickler about that kind of thing—recognition or something—then Kenma can try to get as much information now before he meets him and soften the blow.

Is he freaking out or just really unprepared? And why does it matter so much anyway?

Right—money. At this point, he’ll drink minimum wage straight from the chef’s palms while Tendou laughs in the distance.

Bokuto just chuckles, kicking one of his sneakers on the ground. The chefs must get to wear comfortable shoes. “Depends on what you mean by trouble, kid. Let’s get inside, show you around, meet a couple of the guys who are here. Door number two brings you behind the kitchen.”

Bokuto tilts his head and Kenma follows him into Tiger’s Eye. It’s already a lot to think about on day one, but at least Bokuto is all right. He’s heard that working in the restaurant business can kick your ass, but he’s also only heard it from old classmates who worked in average restaurants with average, often drunk customers.

“Oi, Kageyama,” Bokuto calls out. Door number two closes behind them. As Kenma follows him down a short hallway, Bokuto asks, “Any stuff you brought?”

Kenma shakes his head, says, “No. Um—my phone in my pocket. Keys.”

Bokuto pats a cubby shelf as they pass it. “Put them here now, with anything else you ever bring if you need to. Change of clothes, whatever. Most of us leave everything we can at home. No phones once you enter the building.”

Great. Why would he expect anything different. He reluctantly pulls his phone out of his pocket, makes sure the ringer is clicked off, and relinquishes his lifeline to what looks like mahogany. For a cubby. “Understood.”

A few more steps and the kitchen comes into view, and past it over a long metal counter and an open wall, the dining area with a wall of wine bottles behind a dark wood counter. The kitchen is massive and full of equipment that probably cost more than Kenma will make in half of his life. A refrigerator and freezer, two sinks, three ovens, four stovetops, counter space for days. It’s all stainless steel and stone and cast iron, and if Japan was ever known for its knives, they’re all sitting right here in this room, lined up on counters, in blocks, hanging from wall mounts—all different sizes. You could kill a man a hundred times over in here. Kenma has an idea that Tendou would be drooling at the prospects—especially the cleanup.

Another guy is at the rear of the kitchen, wearing the same clothing as Bokuto except his T-shirt is just white, coming out from a short hallway that goes in the direction of door number one near the pantry. Hauling a sack of flour onto the countertop, he’s not as tall as Bokuto but still taller than Kenma, black hair, normal looking except for the eyes behind the bangs: keen and nearly blue. “What?” he says in a smooth, somewhat detached voice.

“Kozume here asked if I was the executive chef. Isn’t that a good one?” Bokuto laughs again, tilting his chin up.

Kageyama turns back to his flour, placing a hand on the bag. “Sure.”

Bokuto clicks his tongue and turns back to Kenma. “Kageyama’s _pâtissier_. Pastry chef.”

Kenma pauses. “I see. Nice to meet you,” he calls over. He notices one of the ovens is on.

Kageyama looks at him as he unrolls the top of the bag. His expression reads more focused than bored or cold from what Kenma sees. Tendou has said the same thing about him before. “Likewise,” Kageyama says, and Kenma gets the feeling that they’re similar in age.

Bokuto makes an exasperated sound, waving a hand over his shoulder. “Ahh, don’t mind him. He’s perpetually tired.”

“Bokuto is just honored that you think he appears worthy of an executive title,” a third voice says.

Kenma turns toward it: someone wearing the same outfit as him this time, though it fits him perfectly, like the photoshoot version of Kenma’s. And the shoes aren’t quite the same, but that’s normal, right?

“Kozume Kenma, then?” He comes around the wall separating the dining from the kitchen. “I’m Ennoshita Chikara. You’ll be working with me tonight.” He offers a genuine, gentle smile.

“You’re the head server,” Kenma says.

Ennoshita hums, shrugging. “Me or Akaashi, depending on what phase of the game we’re in. Tonight, yes.”

Kenma doesn’t know what _phase of the game_ means, but he’ll find out eventually.

“Akaashi’s the one you need to watch out for,” Bokuto says, hardly whispering though he’s pretending he is, hand cupped to the side of his mouth. “He’ll whip you into shape real fast if—”

“Bokuto.”

Bokuto straightens up and seals his mouth shut. Kenma glances to see who must be the manager: same outfit on par with Ennoshita but with a black tie around his neck held down with a gold clip (not part of the server uniform, he’s sure), piecey hair and sharp eyes, straight-faced, waiting in the dim at the edge of the dining area by another, internal door.

“A few minutes,” Akaashi says. He angles toward the door and turns the handle, opening it slightly. An office of sorts, Kenma assumes.

Bokuto gets a hint of red at his cheeks. “Sure. Did you see? Kozume Kenma is here perfectly on time. I think it was right at two-thirty.” He grins and points at Kenma.

Akaashi meets Kenma’s eyes and nods to him. “I appreciate it. Welcome. Bokuto.” He shifts his gaze again.

Bokuto straightens his shoulders. “Right.” He rounds the wall to go to him. Over his shoulder, he calls out, “You’re gonna win, kid. I can feel it.”

Akaashi closes the door behind them.

Kenma blinks, nescient. He takes a breath.

Ennoshita chuckles and puts a hand on his shoulder. “Let’s go out to the house, shall we?”

“They’ll be starting prep now. Getting the kitchen and our usual ingredients ready for service.”

Ennoshita talks as he moves around the room, turning lights on individually above the tables. They warm up to a muted yellow, spherical bulbs inside colored blown glass, a glow easy on the eyes and fitting for the color scheme. They produce warm circles around the house and against the walls—the same tempered metal as outside but paneled and a deep, arterial red. The tables—booths along the walls and round tables dotting the grey fabric flooring—are draped in red crêpe cloths that seem regal. The chairs are leather, maybe faux, in a cream color that just barely speaks of yellow, as if they were bought finely aged, but none of them have a mark or stain to show.

Kenma’s bedframe cost four thousand yen and is held together with plastic screws.

“Three or so hours each time before service.” Ennoshita clicks on another light.

“Every day?” Kenma asks. He’s standing to the side, making some attempt to analyze Ennoshita’s body movements; he doesn’t once run into a table even in fairly close quarters. The restaurant must seat no more than sixty, give or take.

“Except Thursday.” Ennoshita looks over at Kenma. “The application gave you little information, did it.”

Kenma nods. No wage, no hours. Other than what to wear, he speculated everything based on generalities and movies.

Ennoshita sighs. “Well, I guess that’s the point. That’s our one day off.” He brushes a tablecloth with the tip of an index finger and makes a face. “And sometimes not.” He glides to the next light.

“A full forty-hour workweek then?” Kenma asks.

Ennoshita pauses, lowers his hands and puts them on his hips. “Try seventy.”

Kenma recoils the slightest bit but tries to hide it. “Really?”

“Didn’t Akaashi give you the whole _top priority_ speech?”

Kenma blinks at the floor. Shouldn’t it have been disclosed that it was to that extent? _Seventy hours a week?_ No wonder Kageyama is perpetually tired. Kenma doesn’t even do anything in life right now and he still understands the feeling. How Bokuto has any energy, he doesn’t know.

“And that’s for us servers,” Ennoshita says. “You can add six or seven for the kitchen staff and Akaashi. Though I’m not sure he ever stops working. He probably dreams in tabulations.”

Kenma doesn’t know what to say. Had he known, maybe he wouldn’t have—

“Don’t think about it too much right now,” Ennoshita tells him gently. “Welcome to the fine cuisine business.” He reaches up and flicks on the final light fixture. It glows to life next to them.

“Then we…” Kenma tries, but his breath runs out. He clears his throat and tries again. “Then we leave here at two AM?”

“Every day.” Ennoshita tilts his head. “I suppose there’s a reason it doesn’t go on the application, huh. Wonder if that’s legal.”

Well, he did stay up until two with Tendou last night. And does it often. Maybe his sleep schedule already tracks.

“Like I said—don’t think about it too much. At least give it tonight.” Ennoshita puts his hand on Kenma’s shoulder again, giving it a reassuring, consoling pat. “You’ve got a lot more to have in your head than the time anyway. I promise you, it goes by in a flash. Do you have any trouble sleeping?”

Kenma can barely think. “Sometimes?”

Ennoshita grins. “Not anymore.”

A low call of, “I’m here,” comes from past the kitchen.

“Iwaizumi Hajime,” Ennoshita tells Kenma as they watch him come in. Close-cut spiky hair, eyebrows down, a black jacket draped over his elbow. “ _Rotisseur_.” Ennoshita’s French accent is a lot better than Bokuto’s. “And he’s nicer than he looks. That jacket,” he points as Iwaizumi swings it onto his arms and moves through the kitchen into the pantry hallway, “is what the chefs wear. The red piping and military collar were Kuroo’s choice, don’t ask me. Double-breasted, logo on the left.”

“Aren’t chef’s jackets usually white?” Kenma asks.

Ennoshita shrugs. “Kuroo is unconventional.”

“Is Kuroo the executive chef?”

Ennoshita turns to look at Kenma’s face. He snorts once. “Yeah, he is. You didn’t even search him? That’s fantastic.”

Kenma reddens. “I thought…”

“No, I’m serious.” Ennoshita is smiling. “He could use being knocked down a peg or two lately.”

Kenma rubs his cheek. “Bokuto said I have something coming.”

Ennoshita’s smile closes but doesn’t drop off completely. It changes into something else and his voice softens again. “Hey, don’t mention that I didn’t refer to him as Chef, all right?”

Kenma nods, not that he gets anything. He sighs. “Be honest. What have I messed up already?”

But Ennoshita just chuckles at him. “You’re doing fine. You should’ve seen Hinata on his first day. He’s our last server; he’ll be here soon.” He looks toward the back hallway. “Besides. This isn’t the half of it.”

They stand there for a moment. Kenma wonders about seeing that application, about thinking it would be normal, just a regular waitering job, carrying a little round tray and writing things in a notebook. In and out, mundane and neutral, just to make some money while he figures out the rest of his life. Something tells him Tiger’s Eye wasn’t the right choice for that kind of job. A thousand yen he won’t even get to use a notebook—just sheer memory.

_Try anything. One day_.

He looks through the open wall into the kitchen where Kageyama has a mixer out next to a bottle of wine that says _Tokaji Édes Szamorodni_ and a bowl full of plums, little sparkling beads of water condensing on the black skins. Iwaizumi is walking back in carrying a tray of bright green baby bok choy. He sets it down on the counter next to one of the sinks, turns on the faucet, and finds a santoku knife.

“I have a question,” Kenma says.

Ennoshita hums back.

“Why do we get here so early but the chef doesn’t?”

Ennoshita presses his lips together, suppressing a grin. “I think you’re gonna be fine here, Kozume. Or do you prefer Kenma?”

“Just Kenma.”

“Right, then, Kenma—a lot of the time we at least have Tsukishima by now. He’s our sous chef, Kuroo’s right hand. But some days we don’t.”

“Why is that?”

“Well, if you ask me…” Ennoshita tilts his head as the back door opens again and another voice calls out _Party’s arrived, boys!_ Ennoshita says, “It’s because Kuroo is a total bastard. Tsukishima is only late when the two of them are coming from the same place.” He puts a hand up. “Noya, come meet our new tentative house member.”

A total bastard?

The same place?

_Tentative?_

“Oooi!” Noya comes over in his uniform pants, red high-tops, and a white T-shirt that says _Bottled up_ , a black tie dangling around his neck, the black button-up slung over his shoulder, hooked by its collar on his finger. He stands in front of them at a solid one-sixty with his feet apart and his other hand holding his uniform shoes, his hair pushed back in a thin headband save for a stray chunk in the middle he’s decided to bleach. “Nishinoya Yuu, how do you do?” He grins at Kenma.

“Kozume Kenma,” Ennoshita introduces, motioning a hand between them, “Nishinoya, our master sommelier. Who ran out of gel earlier this week?”

Noya clicks his tongue at him. “I told you I’m going for that softer look. The lady patrons like it. Asahi let me borrow a headband today.”

“It’s cute with the bangs,” Ennoshita tells him, and Noya pulls down an eyelid.

Kenma bows. “Nice to meet you.”

“Cool to have you, Kenma,” Noya says. “Am I getting winner vibes already?”

“What—”

“We’re with Noya a lot,” Ennoshita says, “as he gives diners around the house recommendations for wine and food pairings. We have over two hundred wines to choose from, and Noya can literally identify them all blindfolded and give you a complete analysis and history. And, therefore, offer the pairing best fit for not only the dish, but for each customer’s individual taste preferences.”

Noya shrugs, nonchalant, but the pride resides on his features and the way he sticks his chest out a little. “It’s nothing.”

“Only some eight people pass the master exam each time,” Ennoshita tells Kenma. He brushes Noya away. “Go put some clothes on before Kuroo shows up.”

Noya starts walking away, waving his shoes over his shoulder. “Yeah, like he’ll be here on time. Catch you, Kenma. Come get me during service if you need me, I’ll be around.”

Kenma watches him go over to the wall of wines behind the counter, staring up at them and talking to himself as he starts putting on his shirt.

“Got all of our names so far?” Ennoshita asks him.

Kenma nods. “Will I have to put my hair back?” He wasn’t sure if he’d have to cut it, and he thought about asking if the bleach would be a problem too, but with Bokuto and now Noya, his hair must be acceptable.

“No worries—just don’t get any in the food,” Ennoshita says. “Like I said, Kuroo is unconventional. We try not to be stuffy here; upscale restaurants can get kind of up their own asses.”

“I see.” He nods again. Mental note to brush his hair out extra before he leaves for work tomorrow. If work tomorrow is a thing. Tentative.

Ennoshita smiles. “So, you have left to meet Kuroo and Tsukishima, Hinata, and Terushima, our _saucier_. This place seems like such a boys’ club—I mean, the restaurant business is skewed heavily with men—but we actually have two remote workers, since our true front line is not Akaashi.

“Kiyoko makes the reservations from Osaka. When we opened, with Kuroo’s established name in the business, the calls were so many that Akaashi sat for hours straight with the phone in his hand writing down names for a few months’ worth of tables. Since receiving our first star, he decided to hire Kiyoko to take over. She probably fields thirty calls a day now, alongside a literature translation career, and I believe her husband owns a sports recreational complex. Akaashi chose her because of her objectivity, considering the kinds of people she talks to over the phone, and because she studied abroad in Europe and speaks business English, Italian, and German, along with Japanese.

“By the way.” He points toward the closed office door and then to the kitchen, where Kageyama is cutting the plums and Iwaizumi is slicing the ends off of the bok choy. “Akaashi is fluent in English; Iwaizumi in French. And I think Hinata’s at intermediate level in Korean by now. Got anything?”

Kenma blinks, trying to lock in all of the information. Who knows what he will or won’t need to remember. Last night while they were picking out these shoes, Tendou said something about fancy restaurants giving exams to new hires.

“Don’t freak out,” Ennoshita says. “I’m telling you a lot, but just because I’m predicting. Kind of picking up what Noya and Bokuto put down, huh? But we’re not going to test you. We just expect you to be a quick learner, given that you’re still around at the end of the night.” He flashes a smile.

Oh, then that’s reassuring. What?

Kenma almost says _Well, I’m extensively_ _fluent in Japanese,_ but somehow imagines his voice coming out as Tendou’s snark. “Um, not really,” he answers, taking some effort to get the words out. “A few Russian phrases from one of my friends. Otherwise, no.”

Ennoshita shrugs a shoulder. “Hey, it may come in handy one day. We can’t all be Tanaka Kiyoko. So—our other remote employee is Yachi Hitoka, who’s been accepted into graduate school in Kyoto for media and mass communication studies, but for us, she takes the names from Kiyoko and does research. If we have a Chinese CEO coming in, we want to know about it. If the British Prime Minister has made a request for the chef’s table,” he motions to the table closest to the open wall of the kitchen, “we really want to know about it. If an Austrian opera singer with her biggest show of her career tomorrow night has a shellfish allergy, we _need_ to know about it. You’ll see what I mean before service.

“And so,” he says, crossing his arms, “the two ladies supply everything we need to know here through a computer booking system that they share with Akaashi. Without them, we’d be lost. Questions about anything?”

_Do you have another of those positions open?_ “No. Thank you.”

“You make my job easy.” The back door opens again and Ennoshita tilts his chin toward it. “Terushima Yuuji.”

Kenma looks toward the hallway and watches him go into the kitchen, a yellow T-shirt under his open chef’s jacket, dyed undercut hair pushed back from his forehead. He meets Kenma’s gaze as he walks and gives him a little salute with his smile: _Hey, new guy._

Reflexively, Kenma waves back.

“Really good dude,” Ennoshita says. “Keeps the morale going with Bokuto. We’re glad we snagged him from his former exec. Have you heard of Misaki Hana over at Licht?”

Kenma shakes his head, watching Terushima bring multiple saucepans out onto a stovetop, saying something to Iwaizumi.

“Two stars—she’s an incredible chef,” Ennoshita says. “Somehow Kuroo managed to steal one of her favorites.” He turns, arms still crossed, and glances at a metal wall clock that Kenma wouldn’t be surprised if it was actually made of platinum. “Two-fifty-five. Looks like—”

The back door swings open one more time and Kenma hears what sounds like a bag being shoved into mahogany and, by Ennoshita’s brief but telling introductions, someone who’s obviously not the chef or sous chef race walks in, whipping his head around, orange hair trembling. He’s wearing a server uniform that he frantically tucks in the back. This must be Hinata.

“Is Chef here?” he whisper-shouts into the kitchen. Then he gasps and says, “Honey?”

Kageyama, who looked up from his plums as the door opened with that focused look on, puts out an easing hand and nods. Terushima waves a wooden spoon and says, “Don’t worry.”

“Safe!” Noya calls out like a baseball ref, doing the arm motion over his countertop.

Hinata looks over with wide but relieved eyes that land on Kenma. “Oh, thank god.” He puts a hand on his chest, then walks over to them and bows. “I’m Hinata Shouyou. I look forward to working with you.”

Kenma bows his head back. “Kozume Kenma. Nice to meet you.”

“What do you think?” Ennoshita asks Hinata. “At a glance.”

Hinata pauses, looks at Kenma. Kenma stands there as Hinata tilts his head and says, “Think?” in a specific tone.

Ennoshita laughs. “Right. Hinata, do you want to pull out the silver for us? We’ll be back once Kenma meets Kuroo.”

Hinata nods. He has really good posture. “Yes, sir. Good lu—I mean.” He bows again. “We’ll work hard, Kenma-san!”

Kenma tries to say _Just Kenma_ , but Hinata hurries back past the wall, through the kitchen, mentions something about Kageyama’s plums, and disappears into the other hallway.

“Chef should be here any minute,” Ennoshita says, shaking his head as Hinata scurries away. “Should.”

Kenma says, “I feel like there’s something I’m missing.” He doesn’t say _That you’re not telling me_ , but his and Ennoshita’s wavelengths are already locked in.

He looks up at Ennoshita directly. Ennoshita glances at him, but Akaashi’s office reopens and Bokuto comes back out. He walks past them, gives Kenma a smile, and calls out to Terushima to help him crack open one of the crabs for tonight.

Ennoshita clears his throat. “And that’s almost everyone, then.”

“Twenty-four?” Kenma guesses at him.

“Twenty-five.”

“Mm. Twenty-two.”

Ennoshita chuckles, because no, Kenma can’t call him out for deflecting—not comfortably at least, with their age gap, even if Ennoshita is casual as it is. “Just give it a second,” Ennoshita says. “I’ll explain. I’m holding it off because I want you to have the best chance possible. Information might, I don’t know, give you some kind of handicap. And I’m hoping to get you into the groove before you choose to back out.”

Pause.

Check inventory. Everything they’ve all said so far.

Back out? _Choose_ _to_? From what? The restaurant? The business itself? The total bastard?

What does _tentative_ actually mean?

Ennoshita sighs next to him, brushing his hair back, and his voice comes out low in both volume and tone. “You’re too smart already.”

“For what?” Kenma pleads.

“So, back there,” Ennoshita points to the hallway through the kitchen, voice back to normal, “is cold storage and the pantry on the left, and kind of a storage room on the right, where we keep cleaning supplies and such. Hinata’s in there taking out the flatware, all silver, which we shine every night before service. Except Thursday.”

He gives Kenma an imploring smile, but Kenma is too focused on trying to figure out what _winner_ and _phase of the game_ and _think?_ mean with this new information, and he can’t get a smile out in return.

“And water glasses that we clean every night,” Ennoshita continues. “Extra tablecloths, napkins, backup shirts and chef’s jackets, which we rarely use—though there was an incident with Kageyama and some flour once, and Bokuto and some fire. Chef wasn’t happy. He never really is anymore.”

“Ennoshita, is there something about this job that makes everyone who gets offered this position q—”

He senses it before it happens, even as the whole kitchen alerts along with Ennoshita next to him. Bokuto’s posture straightens. Iwaizumi’s knife as he’s chopping, not missing a beat, comes down onto his cutting board with a crisp _thwack_. Kageyama glances, then lets his bangs fall back to his eyes. Over the open wall, Terushima’s gaze flicks up to Kenma then back down again.

“All bets on you. You’re a great kid,” Ennoshita says quietly, intensely, pleading back to Kenma, and it’s driving him mad and beckoning his anxiety as he follows Ennoshita’s gaze toward the back hallway, and the rest of the kitchen cast their eyes down firmly on their prep work as the door opens for the final entrance of the night.

* * *

**HC: Kageyama is an awarded cake decorator. He won first place in a national competition when he was seventeen with an asymmetrical four-tiered piece complete with blown sugar _taijitu_ koi fish surrounded by colored smoking Isomalt spheres and three hundred twenty-seven hand-piped cherry blossoms (he counted).**


	3. and we earnestly thank the chef's brigade for sponsoring this event.

“It was two months and it kills me every waking moment.”

“Get a hold of yourself, Tetsurou.”

Kenma watches as they walk in, the one with messy black bangs in his face with an arm slung over the shoulders of the blond, leaning into him. They reach the kitchen and black hair throws his free hand up. “Sunday service, everyone.” A grin spreads out across his face.

The entire kitchen relaxes. Terushima is shaking his head and Bokuto chuckles a “Yes, Chef.” The chef ( _Kuroo Tetsurou, right? That guy? Not the other one?_ ) claps him on the shoulder.

“I’m getting hints of…stale red and cardboard. Pinot noir?” Noya calls out from behind his counter. “Boxed, twenty-nineteen?”

The chef points over at him as he goes into the kitchen. “Did somebody say wine?” He walks over to Kageyama and makes a move for the Tokaji bottle, brings it up for a swig, but Kageyama takes it from him in one fluid, practiced motion, setting it back on the counter with an easy, “Chef.”

The chef points at him too. “Good call. Would’ve got my mouth all over that thing and indirect kissed every goddamned customer that orders your cake.”

Iwaizumi turns back to his work.

“Well,” Ennoshita says quietly, “I want to say yikes, but this is probably better.”

Than what? “Is he drunk?” Kenma matches the hushed tone, but his heart isn’t racing anymore and the anxiety is replaced with relief, confusion, and incredulity.

“Buzzed.”

“Is there a difference?”

Ennoshita takes a breath and lets it out. “Yeah. There is.”

Kenma takes another look at three-star chef Kuroo Tetsurou. His wrinkled T-shirt, jacket held in the blond’s hand. His hair that looks like he didn’t touch it since waking up, bangs covering one eye and the back sticking out haphazardly. The slight stumble in his step. The smirkish grin he’s giving to the guys in the kitchen.

Hinata comes out from the back room and pauses in the threshold, bowing with a “Chef!” and Kuroo reaches over and ruffles his hair. Hinata stands up blushing.

Ennoshita sighs again. “A lot better. Maybe tonight he won’t…” He stops, and Kenma waits, but nothing else comes out. Eventually, he says, “Tsukishima Kei, sous chef and _aboyeur_.”

Kenma shifts his gaze over. Equally tall as the chef but narrower, one arm crossed over his body and the other elbow resting on it, fingertips of that hand pushing up black-rimmed glasses. A disappointed look behind the lenses.

So he’s the one who came from the same place as the total bastard. That moniker makes sense now, having seen Kuroo. Kenma has seen enough movies about chefs to know that half of them are alcoholics.

Tiger’s Eye, nationally recognized, three Michelin Stars—the highest culinary honor—and a renowned founding executive chef.

Right?

That’s where he is, right?

“Don’t let it fool you,” Ennoshita says.

“What?”

“Sometimes it’s this, sometimes it’s more than just buzzed, sometimes he’s all right, sometimes he’s roaring mad the moment he turns the handle. You never know with him. Everything is a façade.”

“For what?” Kenma asks.

Ennoshita shrugs, but it looks like it means something to him. “For nothing.” He looks up at the clock again. “Two fifty-nine. A new record.”

Yeah. Kuroo seems like a stand-up guy.

“I was told to defer to the chef,” Kenma says.

“You’ll understand. I mean,” he glances at Kenma, “I hope you won’t, ever, but you will.”

“But all bets on me, right?”

Ennoshita rubs his neck, a strained look on his face and a crease between his brows. “Okay. Fine. I don’t usually go into the spiel on the first night. It’s not usually worth it. But you’re right, and I said I’m giving you a handicap.” He tilts his head and crosses his arms again. “You’re persuasive, Kenma.”

“I—”

“Barely said anything? Yeah. You said enough. Did you go to uni?”

“Literature.”

Ennoshita laughs once, like it should have been obvious. “Right.” He closes his eyes. “Right. Okay, voices down.”

Behind his counter, shining a wine glass with a silk cloth, a pair of black fabric gloves on his hands, Noya glances up at the two of them. Kenma keeps his mouth shut for Ennoshita to tell him what’s really going on.

“It was five of us at first,” he begins, “when Kuroo founded the place back then. He, Akaashi, and Bokuto have known each other for a long time and had the dream of their own restaurant together. And to start everything off, he hired me and Tsukishima. Once the place was built and the real planning could be started was when he went in search for the rest of the staff. Akaashi was the one who called you, and as much as he has a say as the manager, Kuroo is the final word on who picks the employees here.”

“It’s his restaurant,” Kenma says, though it feels weird coming out of his mouth after seeing the state of Kuroo himself.

Ennoshita nods. “Absolutely. But he picks people for a reason.” Ennoshita’s gaze moves between the men in the kitchen as he speaks. “Prior to creating Tiger’s Eye, Kuroo worked as a sous under two-star chef Sugawara Koushi at In Flight in Kyoto. He was Kuroo’s mentor and friend, and the split when Kuroo decided to make a name for himself was amicable. They still mention each other once in a while, but the day Kuroo’s first critic’s review came in that didn’t have Sugawara’s name in it was his first great achievement as an executive chef.

“Bokuto is Kuroo’s best friend from childhood.” Ennoshita nods to him, and Kenma hears Bokuto laugh, holding up a crab leg in Kuroo’s direction. “But he also graduated at the top of his class in culinary school and has been working in the business for longer than any of us, including Kuroo himself. He’s twenty-seven, the oldest of us. Graduated a year prior to Kuroo, and while Kuroo was with Sugawara, Bokuto was working in two different kitchens under Kita Shinsuke and Daishou Suguru here in Tokyo—both with a star to their names—gaining expertise in traditional Japanese cuisine and contemporary Western fusion, respectively. He is our most well-rounded and experienced chef, and has the position in our kitchen that he does because of it.

“Like I told you before, Terushima came from Misaki Hana’s kitchen, which was reason enough to choose him, but he’s also been cooking since he was four years old and has one of the finest palates in the nation.” Ennoshita chuckles, watching Terushima nudge Kuroo in the shoulder. “And Kuroo just likes his personality.

“Kageyama is the youngest in our kitchen at twenty-two. He’s won multiple international competitions and awards for his baking, and when Kuroo got word that his rival over at Blue wanted him, it sealed the deal and Kuroo offered the higher salary. He was hired straight from the luxury catering service he was working in at the time, at nineteen years old.”

“Blue?” Kenma asks, remembering reading about it before.

“Oikawa Tooru’s restaurant,” Ennoshita says. “He opened four months after Kuroo did, some three years ago now, and received his first star two months sooner.”

_It was two months and it kills me every waking moment._

“I see,” Kenma says.

“Tsukishima—” Ennoshita says, and Kenma looks at him standing behind Kuroo, leaning against the counter, listening to everybody else. “—is probably the most qualified. He went to the best school and was hired right out of it by Ukai Keishin. The Ukai restaurant has been around for generations and was one of the first in Japan to receive a Michelin Star. Its third star was received in nineteen-eighty by Chef Ikkei, and has been held ever since, with his grandson, Chef Keishin, as its current executive. Why Tsukishima chose to leave when Kuroo offered a job to build a brand new restaurant from the ground up, I hesitate to guess.

“And Iwaizumi,” Ennoshita says with a finality in his voice, “came from Moniwa Kaname, and is just one hell of a chef.”

A small team of highly qualified, highly skilled individuals, hand-picked by Kuroo to come work in Tiger’s Eye from its inception. It doesn’t make sense. If Kuroo is the way he is, why did they agree? And why did they stay?

“Why did you have to wait to tell me?” Kenma asks instead, because he gets the idea that the answer to the other questions isn’t as simple as to this one. That maybe Ennoshita doesn’t have the full answer, if an answer at all.

Ennoshita shakes his head at him: _I’m getting there_. “In the kitchen,” he says, “it’s a meritocracy. Kuroo chose based on caliber and quality—things that have always defined him as a chef—and he holds everything and everyone to a very high standard. He’s never had any other staff there than the men you see now. But in the house, the rest of you out here, he picks for…” He trails off as he watches Hinata finish saying something, bow to everyone, and then scuttle back into the hallway. “Other reasons.”

Something in Kenma’s stomach sinks down heavily. The rest of _you_ , Ennoshita said. He takes a moment to consider his application, himself, Hinata, Noya—anything except Ennoshita who was here from the start. Something has to click.

“What reasons,” he asks.

“The reasons why this position has such a high turnover rate,” Ennoshita says.

“What do you mean?”

Ennoshita sighs one more time, brushes his hair back from his forehead and lets it fall gently into place again. “He has a type. Smaller, easy to corner. Here because they _need_ a job.”

The weight in Kenma’s stomach sinks lower.

A ring of bright lights bursts on in his head.

“There are supposed to be four servers,” Ennoshita continues. “But Kuroo can never keep them around long enough and we can barely get a hire for a fourth position as it is, so Akaashi usually fills in. For me—like I said, I’m original, and I’m not his thing anyway. Hinata was the third round in his slot when we hired him eight months ago, and he’s somehow been able to not lose his mind about it, and Kuroo has gotten over him as a boy toy option. Or else Hinata is just really used to it, and Kuroo got bored.”

Hinata comes back out carrying a spray bottle and a cloth. He rounds the open wall and starts cleaning the countertop.

“We clean the pass before service,” Ennoshita says, as if an aside like that is normal right now. “And a few times a week, we remove and wash all the tablecloths and wipe the tables, too. Hinata’s really fast.”

“What am I in for?” Kenma’s stomach feels weird, anxiety coming back in. Is he scared of Kuroo? No. Does he care to be harassed? Not really. Is he going to end up like nearly everyone else who applies for this job?

“More attention than you probably want,” Ennoshita says.

“How bad?” Kenma watches Hinata’s arm moving in quick circles over the countertop, shiny in the gentle glow.

Ennoshita shrugs. “I guess that depends on how you see it. It embarrassed Hinata more than anything, though I imagine he was uncomfortable, too.” He clicks his tongue. “Kuroo isn’t going to whip it out in front of you, but he tends to have a smirk. And a way with words.”

The cheer of a crowd starts to fade in in Kenma’s mind. A vintage microphone is lowered on a wire from somewhere above the ring.

Kuroo finally takes the crab leg from Bokuto and snaps it in two.

“What about Nishinoya?” Kenma asks.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Noya glance up at them again. He knows exactly what they’re talking about.

Ennoshita chuckles. “Noya’s an exception. He slapped Kuroo on his first advance, and normally that’d have you out on your ass in an instant, but he’s a master sommelier, after all. Kuroo only had two advanced sommeliers before finding him, and they both chose to go somewhere else. Landing Noya was a win on Kuroo’s part that he couldn’t afford to give up. Plus,” he hooks a thumb at Noya who waves his silk cloth dramatically at them, “he’s got a buff boyfriend who picks him up after work.” Noya shoots them a gloved thumbs up and another wink.

Headband guy, Kenma figures; Asahi, right? Maybe he could get Tendou to skip work one day and chaperone him. Buff isn’t the right adjective, but he could definitely give Kuroo a good scare.

Wow. This is pathetic.

“The two of them won,” Ennoshita says. “As far as your slot for third server—you’re round seven. The rest of us are waiting to see who’s gonna get the knockout first.”

As he leans against the counter, Tsukishima crosses his arms, still saying nothing to the other chefs as they’re gathered casually around Kuroo. Kuroo claps once, says, “Get to it,” waving half of the crab leg in the air, and they disperse to continue prep. Kuroo turns to Tsukishima, steps close to him to talk low enough that Kenma can’t hear, and Kenma can no longer see his eyes past his bangs.

In Kenma’s head: Tendou, dressed in an announcer’s uniform, ducks under the ropes of the boundary and hops up into the ring. He grabs the microphone and throws the other arm up to the cheering audience. _Welcome to the showdown, everyone! In this corner, we have our reigning champion, only twice defeated in his entire career: Kuroo “Total Bastard” Tetsurou! And in this corner—let’s all give a fiery Tiger’s Eye welcome to the newest fighter on the lightweight scene: Kozume “Just Kenma” Kenma!_

Now he knows what _winner_ and _phase_ mean. To everyone else watching, this is all a game.

“That’s awful,” he says.

“Hey, I’m not saying you’re wrong. People in this business in the area… Let’s just say Kuroo has a reputation of late. Akaashi works hard to keep it as quiet as he can. None of us can seem to get Kuroo to stop, and it’s getting harder to hire people, either because nobody is applying, or because the ones who do apply and know Kuroo won’t mess with them don’t get hired, no matter how hard Akaashi pushes him. This might be wrong to say, but I feel a sense of luck that you didn’t know about him before coming here. Otherwise, you probably wouldn’t have at all.”

Kenma doesn’t know what to say. All that comes out is a hum.

“And with everything, in the end, you’re right.” Ennoshita crosses his arms tight again. “It’s his restaurant.”

Kuroo turns his head from Tsukishima who follows his gaze towards Hinata: on his tiptoes, leaned over the opposite side of the pass from them inspecting a spot on the surface. Kuroo suanters over, that buzzed lilt still in his movements, leans down with his forearms on the freshly-cleaned counter, and says something near Hinata’s ear. Kenma imagines it’s close and breathy enough to make strands of orange wiggle, to allow Hinata to smell boxed twenty-nineteen pinot noir. Hinata tucks his shoulders up, stands, nods and says “Y-yes, Chef!” and hustles back around to the hallway, cheeks red. Kageyama shakes his head, and Bokuto lifts a brow at Kuroo, and Iwaizumi pretends he didn’t notice, and Tsukishima looks down and adjusts his glasses again, and Kenma figures the boy toy thing isn’t totally played out after all. Eight months later.

Pause. Check inventory.

He could walk out right now. If they’re already expecting he could leave, and if Akaashi was going to turn him away for just wearing the wrong outfit, then he’s obviously dispensable. He could quit before Kuroo ever gets the chance—pretend that none of this ever happened and move on, pull out from the fight, step out of the ring unscathed.

What would he say to his friends? Would they hang him out to dry if he told them that he came here and then left before dinner ever started? They’d understand, no doubt, if he explained everything. Does he really want them to tell him it’s okay? How many times has he heard Lev’s sad, consoling little _Vsyo khorosho_ telling him that _All is well_? They push him to do well, do _things_ , ceaselessly because they know it’s good for him, and he either backs out every time, or doesn’t make it in the first place. He _is_ already standing in this restaurant, isn’t he? Isn’t the first step already complete?

But what fool wouldn’t leave? Staying seems asinine. This isn’t a battle he can win.

But…Noya and Hinata did. Even if it’s still in its final dregs, Hinata’s sticking around, sticking through it—and he’s even smaller than Kenma, and probably younger. Kenma puts him at nineteen, maybe twenty, and he beat Kuroo fair and square, and Noya—the smallest of all of them—did too. But that’s easy—Noya has presence. Hinata has tenacity. Kenma has…

Experience. For once, he has experience. Not in working in a restaurant, or working much at all, but if there’s one thing Kenma is good at, it’s winning games. Tendou would never admit it, but even with all of his ruthlessness, and Lev’s go-getter attitude, and Yaku’s strategy, and Wakatoshi’s power—of their little five-person team, Kenma is by far their best player in all categories, no matter the game. Once, Yaku said that Kenma is the center and they’re the branches he needs to maximize his capability. Tendou wouldn’t admit that much out loud, but he did give Kenma a nudge on the shoulder and a grin, and even Wakatoshi vocally agreed. When it comes to taking on an opponent, Kenma is game to try. He doesn’t play to lose.

And all bets are on him. Ennoshita, Noya, Bokuto, maybe _all_ of the rest of them, regardless of their loyalty to Kuroo, want Kenma’s victory.

“So what phase is this, then?” he asks.

Ennoshita smiles. “Taking on the challenge?”

Kenma doesn’t grace that with a reply. This situation is irrational and annoying.

_Yes_.

“You really are a smart guy, aren’t you,” Ennoshita says.

“I graduated with honors, I guess,” Kenma mutters.

A soft laugh. “Good for you. I wish I’d taken university more seriously.” He takes a breath. “When I said phase, I meant how staffed we are. We’re in the ‘more staff’ phase tonight because of you, so Akaashi won’t have to be so much a server as his actual job of _maître D’_. And if you’re wondering who’s really in charge here—even in the house, I mean…” They both look toward the kitchen where Kuroo is talking with the crab leg in Tsukishima’s direction while the sous chef just stares back, fingertips pressing into the arms of his jacket. “Like I said. Don’t be fooled,” Ennoshita tells him. “Kuroo has his stars for a reason. Tiger’s Eye is his life. He’s become very protective over it these past few months with some of the reviews that have come out. So just, you know, watch your ass.” He looks at Kenma. “Literally. His hand’s got a penchant.”

Akaashi comes out of his office again. “Everything all right?”

Ennoshita turns to him and nods. “All good. Kenma is going to be just fine.”

It’s appreciated, Kenma thinks, but he shouldn’t speak too soon. _One night. Try anything. Try hard_.

Akaashi just nods once. “Kuroo and Tsukishima,” he calls out. The two of them look over. He waves them in toward his office.

The chefs come out from the kitchen and head toward the house. Kuroo doesn’t even notice Kenma and Ennoshita off to the side, busy playing with the frame of Tsukishima’s glasses as they walk, saying, “Am I in trouble?” to the manager awaiting. But Tsukishima’s gaze lands on Kenma, a momentary flash of glowing lenses catching lamplight, a flat interminable glance from golden eyes and sharp brows, expressionless. He looks away and they pass into Akaashi’s office. The door closes behind them.

Kenma takes another breath.

“The floor is yours,” Ennoshita says to him. “Ask me anything.”

“What’s up with that?” Kenma asks, motioning to the closed office door.

“Akaashi’s office?”

“No. Them.”

Ennoshita whistles, not loud enough for anyone but them—and maybe Noya, who might have laughed under his breath. “You’re quick. And that’s something none of us know the answer to.”

Of course not. This establishment doesn’t provide answers to him easily. Next. “Okay. You said Hinata was hired eight months ago? The third round?”

“You notice that the timing doesn’t fit, right?” Ennoshita says. “How did we manage to keep two servers around before then?

“Right.”

“We didn’t. The timeline you know of begins ten months ago when Kuroo received his third star. Up until then, things were actually okay. We were a great, well-oiled, no fights, quick-rising, acclaimed kitchen and house. There were three other servers besides me—good people, another guy and two women—but they chose to leave once things changed. The two servers after that—at the start of the ten months—were Kuroo’s first rounds since his wait staff abandoned him. Between the two of them, they only lasted those two months until Hinata’s hire. And we’ve been trying to fill your slot since then. Like I said, we can’t even get anyone for slot four.”

Next. “Was it Blue getting their star first that turned him this way?”

Ennoshita pauses. Shrugs slowly. “I’m not really sure. It was around the same time, and it did frustrate him—I remember the day it happened vividly. But it wasn’t until Kuroo landed _his_ too that it felt like things really changed. I don’t know. I can’t explain it. It just happened.”

“Just suddenly?”

Ennoshita shakes his head. “I’m…not sure. We had a good gig running for a long time. One day it just turned out that things weren’t the same as the last any of us could remember.”

Kenma stands there nodding, feeling like if he thinks hard enough he can figure something out yet still knowing that it’s impossible. He has barely any information. No amount of thought can make up for things he doesn’t know. He’s new; everyone else here now was here then. He’s the odd one out.

“He’s always been strict,” Ennoshita says, like the silence is too much. “He’s a very driven man, and he works hard to get what he wants. He’s meticulous, detail-oriented, intense. When articles first started coming out about him, even when Sugawara’s name was still attached, they called him a presence in both the business and his kitchen. The staff here have always put in maximum effort for him. He’s never been easy or lenient. Just different.” He gazes toward the office door. “Different than now.”

“Okay,” is all Kenma can think to say.

There isn’t enough. Not enough to know things, and not enough to make him desperate to forgo this challenge, but at the same time not enough to make him desperate to stay either. It just doesn’t make any _sense._

“Anyway,” Ennoshita sighs out. “We should get moving. Three hours for prep started ten minutes ago.”

“Can I ask one more thing?”

He looks up, and Ennoshita looks back at him. “Sure.”

Kenma swallows. His mouth has felt dry since he arrived—since he left his apartment. “Why did you stay? I mean, when he hired you and Tsukishima—”

“He was different then.”

In the pause, Kenma just stares at him.

“Really. He was the same in character, in values, but he was different. He was starry-eyed. And that was a big part of it, for sure—why I stayed—because I kind of was, too. I’ve always wanted to work in fine dining, for some reason. Too many movies, I guess, but I can’t cook to save my life.” He laughs once, sort of sad. “So it was special for me. Starting something. Being invited into somebody else’s dream.” He clears his throat. “But more than that…” He considers the floor for a moment, the crease appearing between his brows again. Then he says, “There’s just something about working with him. I suppose I feel like I’m doing something.”

Kenma blinks. “Doing something?”

Ennoshita looks up finally, smiles at him to match his laugh from before. “Yeah. I really can’t explain it. I would if I could, but it’s something you have to experience being here yourself. With him.”

Kenma feels some emotion welling up. Get ready, because Kuroo is going to do things you won’t like, and feel free to run—but actually stay, just suffer it, because you’ll have a revelation? What do they want? What kind of person is Kuroo, anyway? “I don’t understand what—”

The oven that’s been on since he arrived goes off.

Ennoshita says, “Just give it one night. You have the capacity to do this, I promise. You’re one of us.”

Kenma’s chest tightens.

Hinata rushes out from the back with an actual silver platter in his hands, wearing the same black cloth gloves Noya had on to shine glasses. “Is it done?” He eyes the oven excitedly.

Bokuto, Iwaizumi, and Terushima all turn to Kageyama, who pulls a towel from the handle on the oven and folds it thick. “Should be.”

Kenma looks over, and Terushima looks right at him. “Come check it out,” he calls, waving a hand.

“Can you smell it yet?” Ennoshita asks, putting a smile back on. He starts heading for the kitchen and Kenma is forced to follow, putting the rest of their conversation further back in his head to try to get out of emotional detective mode and into job mode.

Now that Ennoshita mentions it, he can sense a warm, glowing kind of sweetness in the air that goes well with the honey warmth of the light fixtures around the room.

Hinata’s voice earlier, when he first arrived: _Honey?_

Ennoshita reads his expression over his shoulder. “Just wait until he opens the oven.”

They enter into the kitchen with everyone as Kageyama tucks one hand into the towel and picks up a small metal baking spatula in the other. Hinata, clutching the platter by the edges in both gloves, has saucer eyes at the oven door.

Next to where Kenma is standing, Terushima says, “One of everyone’s favorite days. Only happens once a month.”

“Kageyama has had honey dehydrating in the oven overnight,” Bokuto explains, arms crossed and a chef’s knife still in his hand. Kenma trusts him with it, but he still steers clear.

“Low and slow,” Kageyama says in that manner. He looks intensely, pure focus, at the oven as he grips the handle. “Two pans, spread thin. Forty-eight degrees, eighteen hours to eliminate viscosity.”

“He likes to be dramatic,” Bokuto stage whispers again, and Iwaizumi chuckles.

Kageyama is too focused on the oven to notice. He pulls open the door slowly, and from it wafts a dense, rich sweetness in a heat wave across the group of them. Hinata leans in on his toes, Terushima draws a deep breath next to Kenma, and even Iwaizumi closes his eyes in pleasure as his chest rises. Kenma looks at the honey on the sheet pan, a thin layer of deep gold, no cracks or imperfections, warping the air above it as Kageyama pulls it out of the oven.

“Good,” Kageyama says simply.

“Can I?” Hinata says, putting up a hand. Kageyama looks at him, already bringing the spatula to the pan’s edge.

“Let Kozume have it this time around,” Terushima says.

Kenma looks at him and Terushima gives him a smile. He thinks about saying _Just Kenma,_ but it doesn’t come out.

“Only one taste each time,” Iwaizumi says. “The rest comes to me.”

Hinata deflates but then grins at Kenma. “It’s amazing. Kageyama’s a genius.”

Kageyama wedges the spatula’s tip between the pan’s edge and the honey sheet, and the whole thing lifts up a centimeter before shattering into auburn shards. He flicks one deftly onto the flat of the spatula and holds it out toward Kenma. Hinata watches it go.

“Careful, it’s hot,” Ennoshita says.

“Oh.” Kenma takes the piece in his fingertips.

Kenma glitches for a second, weirded out with everyone just looking at him, waiting for his reaction, and he’s never been one to give good reactions in the first place. The longer he stands there, the more awkward it gets. He puts the shard on his tongue and closes his mouth.

It melts dryly, instantly, the way cotton candy does. His salivary glands gush open and the flavor flows over his tongue and coats his mouth—the purest sweetness he may have ever tasted, but not too sweet, with hints of something darker and deeper, but he doesn’t have the words to describe it.

He looks back at Kageyama. “Oh, wow.”

Bokuto grins halfway and punches Kenma’s shoulder with the hand holding the knife, but Kenma doesn’t flinch.

“Ah, I’m jealous,” Hinata says.

Kageyama lifts the pan. “I’ll be grinding this and thyme—”

“ _Hand_ grinding,” Ennoshita emphasizes.

“Hand grinding them later,” Kageyama corrects, “to make a seasoning mixture for one of our entrées.”

Kenma is still moving his tongue around in his mouth, getting every bit of the flavor he can. He swallows one more time and accidentally says, in a monotonous tone, “Sweet.”

Kageyama blinks and Bokuto and Ennoshita both snort. Terushima laughs out loud, and when Kenma looks up at him, he smiles and looks down, crossing his arms, shaking his head.

Ennoshita puts his hand on Kenma’s shoulder again. “All right. Let’s get started on the house. And you a pair of gloves. Head out there—I’ll be right back.” He raises his voice a little, moving to the hallway, as the guys in the kitchen move back to their prep work. “How’s the feeling everyone? Bets placed?”

For a moment, Kenma feels like a piece on a chessboard, a pawn that they’re all playing with, the true rookie in the ring surrounded by many veteran fighters.

But in answer to Ennoshita, everybody nods—Bokuto holding his chef’s knife, Terushima with a pair of kitchen shears, Kageyama pulling out the second pan, even Iwaizumi who’s already back to facing his bok choy, santoku in hand.

He may be a rookie, but he has people backing him. And Ennoshita, his coach rubbing his shoulders before he steps out into the ring, is about to hand him his gloves.

Ennoshita smiles and disappears into the back room.

Kenma stands there. Bows. Turns on his heel with heat in his cheeks and goes out into the house to wait for Ennoshita to come back.

He doesn’t get more than ten seconds to breathe and get his heart rate down a little before Akaashi’s door reopens. Tsukishima and Kuroo come back out, and Kenma puts his feet together and stands up straighter, just in case. This time, Kuroo notices him standing there and slows down. Their eyes meet—or, eye, in Kuroo’s case: lidded, sharp, with a full-dark pupil. Kenma’s mind flashes to the insignia on the front of the restaurant.

“Go on, Kei,” Kuroo says without turning away.

Tsukishima stops, looks at Kenma, then turns and goes without a word to the kitchen.

Kenma shifts slightly on his feet as Kuroo comes over to him. He bows, hands held behind his back. “Chef.”

“Who are you?”

When Kenma straightens, Kuroo’s eyes travel down his body and then back up. His eyebrow ticks upward half a centimeter.

“Kozume Kenma is your new server, Kuroo.” Akaashi closes his door behind him, entering into the house. “You chose him yesterday afternoon.”

Kuroo puts a hand on his hip. “Right. Good choice.”

Kenma considers saying _Thank you, Chef_ , if only for the sake of getting on Kuroo’s good side, but he thinks better of it and says nothing. He flicks his head to get a strand of hair out of his face and stands quietly.

Akaashi comes to stand next to him and regards Kuroo with a level gaze. “Go easy.”

Kuroo’s lips slide upward on the corner, just barely. “You know that’s not how my kitchen works.” He tilts his head, still looking at Kenma. “You’ll give me a good service, won’t you?”

Whether it’s meant as an innuendo or not, Kenma holds his tongue. He’s starting to understand what Akaashi meant when he first called him last night.

“Won’t you,” Kuroo says again, a statement this time.

Kenma looks back at him. “Yes, Chef.”

Kuroo tilts his head a little further, then turns away, back toward his team in the kitchen.

Kenma’s shoulders droop forward. How much would his friends pity him if he really did tap out early?

“Met everyone?” Akaashi asks him in the same voice as always, like nothing is strange here. Kenma figures that for here, it isn’t.

“Pretty much.” He glances into the kitchen and is thankful that Kuroo’s back is to him, broad shoulders pulling taut his white T-shirt, that prying eye facing the other way. Kenma hasn’t talked to Iwaizumi, but he doesn’t seem like the talkative type. Tsukishima looks like a Kuroo thing and is fairly intimidating anyway. The only other person he hasn’t directly spoken to is Terushima, but that was just because of timing. He seems nice, and Ennoshita vouched for him too.

Terushima glances up over the pass again, holding a bunch of purple beets in one hand. He smiles again, nodding a bit.

“Pretty much,” Kenma says again. He looks up at Akaashi, waiting for him to ask how he’s feeling, what he’s thinking, to say something about Kuroo or ask if Ennoshita filled him in on the state of things.

But Akaashi just nods once. “Very good.”

Kenma holds in a sigh. He thought his group of five friends was mix-matched, but this restaurant is even more miscellaneous.

_One night. Literally just one night. After that, if he does something and you leave, it’s not your fault. You didn’t tap out, you_ got _out._

“We’ll start preparing the house,” Akaashi says, and when Kenma checks back in from his internal persuasion, he sees Ennoshita and Hinata coming out from the back room. Hinata is carrying two hand steamers, and Ennoshita a basket full of clean napkins. On top of the pile of cream fabric to match the color of the chairs rests a pair of pristine black gloves.

Perfect for his debut fight.

“Let’s get to it,” Ennoshita says, and Hinata grins at him.

Prepping the house meant listening to the sounds of the kitchen prepping dinner as he steamed the tablecloths with Hinata, Ennoshita dusted every light fixture and booth surface, and Akaashi cleaned the tinted glass of the front wall of the restaurant. Sitting at a table and folding a hundred silverware sets into napkins while Ennoshita shined water glasses with Noya and Akaashi vacuumed the entire floor. The five of them wiping down every inch of every chair. Everything spotless.

By the end of it, the gloves have molded perfectly to Kenma’s hands and he hardly feels them there anymore, like he’s had them forever. When he finally takes a moment to stand and arch his back, the platinum clock on the wall says 5:35.

“Your spine gets used to it,” Ennoshita says to him, snapping closed the disinfectant wipes they used on the chairs. The whole house smells like fresh lemon and Tendou.

“Is this the full outfit for us?” Kenma asks.

“Except for Akaashi-san,” Hinata answers.

Kenma looks into the kitchen where Iwaizumi, Bokuto, Kageyama, and Terushima are buttoning up their chef’s jackets. The military collars stand stiff at their necks, a few centimeters from their jawlines, and Kenma looks at the red piping on Terushima’s jacket as he tugs it into place. Kuroo’s unconventionality sort of works here. These are way better than plain white.

From behind his door, Akaashi takes down a black suit jacket, pulls it on, and buttons it closed with the tie tucked in, gold clip visible and catching light. In one of his hands is a few papers stapled together. “Let’s get everyone by the pass,” he calls out.

Bokuto whistles and twirls a finger in the air. “Bring it in.”

Tsukishima comes out of the back hallway in his jacket, adjusting his glasses.

Kenma follows Ennoshita towards the open wall. Before he asks, Ennoshita says, “This is what I was talking about earlier. Keep focused.”

“Okay.”

Kuroo is the last one in, walking through the hall as he buttons his jacket closed. It fits him snugly, a deep black to match the tone of his hair and his one pupil. When he looks up and catches Kenma’s eye again, everything is gone. He has snapped completely out of his buzz, chin held high, straight-faced, strait-laced, and respectable. A presence.

One thought comes into Kenma’s head: _He wasn’t here before._ This _is the three-star executive chef._

Kuroo looks away to Akaashi. “List them off.”

Everyone looks to Akaashi as he holds up the papers. Kenma’s eyes linger on Kuroo’s three-quarter profile because he thinks that at this angle, if Kuroo could turn just a little bit more, tilt his jaw just precisely that way, Kenma could get a flash of that other eye, hidden beneath the bangs.

Akaashi’s voice pulls him out of it, and his gaze over.

“At six o’clock we have four tables. Ennoshita and Kenma will be serving Mr. and Mrs. Ayusawa. Mr. Ayusawa is a strategic analyst for the Mizuho Financial Group, and his wife is a well-known philanthropist throughout Tokyo. This is their first time dining with us; make sure it won’t be their only time. Hinata will serve Mr. and Mrs. Fukao, who have dined with us many times before. Keep in mind her preference for sear on the scallops, Bokuto and Iwaizumi. Hinata will let you know when it’s her order. We will show them the same quality and graciousness as always.” The three of them nod as Akaashi moves down further on the first page. “Ennoshita will be serving a group of four gentlemen from Zen-Noh, one of whom is the chief secretary, another of whom is the trade coordinator for the European Union, and the final two are two of their largest shareholders. As you know, we get our Kobe from one of their subsidiaries—Iwaizumi, expect multiple synchronous orders. I will be serving a Ms. Stewart and Ms. Huang who have just landed from Vancouver earlier this morning. Ms. Stewart has an allergic aversion to acidic fruits. Terushima should watch her order for the calamansi, grapefruit, or lemon, and be wary about huckleberries and pomegranate. Kageyama should be equally wary of the raspberries. Prepare to make dishes accordingly should she request a substitution or removal.” The two of them nod as well. “At six-fifteen we’ll seat our next three tables…”

At the seven-thirty mark, reservations space out to half hour intervals, until the last acceptance of diners at midnight. It takes twenty-five minutes for Akaashi to go through all four sheets of paper, front and back, and Kenma can’t even remember how many tables they’ll be serving tonight. It’s no wonder they’re trying so hard to hire people, why they want the fourth slot filled—and this restaurant isn’t even that big, though neither is the kitchen staff. All of this work and its meticulous, tedious nature, and adding on Kuroo’s behavior, must be what has worn Akaashi out so badly.

But nobody flinches in the slightest at a word Akaashi says. Everyone here is fully aware, fully used to things. Veteran fighters.

“And we’ll close at one, as always,” Akaashi finishes. “Questions?”

Ennoshita leans towards Kenma. “Don’t worry. We have that list taped to the other side of the pass for us during the night.”

Thank god. He obviously has some other things to worry about tonight than having six hours’ worth of tables memorized.

“None,” Bokuto says.

“Very good,” Akaashi says. “Oh, and my apologies.” Kenma watches Akaashi’s hand gesture towards him. “Most of you have met Kozume Kenma. He’ll be with us tonight.”

Tonight. Tentative.

He glances at Kuroo again, standing silently, posture erect.

_Everything is a façade._

Is this a façade too?

A beat goes by as the chefs nod to Kenma and he nods back. When he looks back at Kuroo, Kuroo is looking at him with his one eye. The corner of his mouth curves upward, just the slightest.

_Fighters, put up your gloves. Audience, get ready for the battle of the century!_

“Is everyone ready?” Kuroo says. Suddenly, his voice is deeper and authoritative.

Every person standing with him says at once, “Yes, Chef.”

Even Kenma.

Kuroo nods once. “We stay in motion—we flow without stopping, every part contributing to the whole. Together, we move at peak efficiency, each plate to impossible standards. Remember why you’re here.” He lifts his jaw a degree higher. “Sunday service. Don’t let me down.”

“ _Yes, Chef_.”

“Akaashi, open the doors.”

_Round one: begin!_

In Kenma’s head, the bell dings twice.

* * *

**HC: Kuroo and Sugawara still keep in touch. Whenever Kuroo visits Kyoto, he stops by In Flight to see his old mentor and head chef. Suga always personally cooks him his meal and stays to talk for at least ten minutes to rag on Kuroo about all of his accomplishments and to make sure that Kuroo still mentions him once in a while in interviews. Sometimes they go out for drinks after service if Kuroo thinks he can stand any more of Suga’s teasing. Suga holds his liquor far better than Kuroo does.**


	4. in any instance regardless of the circumstance.

* * *

T I G E R ’ S E Y E

_\- hors-d'oeuvres -_

King crab with Greek yogurt, cucumber, calamansi, and sherry reduction

Sous vide and fried sunchoke with celery, onion, and mustard seed

Golden and purple beet with pistachio, pomegranate seed, and white balsamic reduction

Mushroom cream orzo with maitake mushroom, parsley, and soy sauce jelly

_\- entrées -_

Wild Chinook salmon with Meyer lemon, red cabbage, and honey thyme glaze

Pan seared scallop with huckleberry and licorice

Pan seared foie gras with chardonnay grapefruit reduction and baby bok choy

Kobe beef with button mushroom, shallot, horseradish, and microgreens on a bed of barley

_\- desserts -_

Rose petal panna cotta with damson and lavender Viennese shortbread

Black plum Tokaji cake with Tokaji jelly, white chocolate ganache, and mascarpone ice cream with spun caramel web

Chocolate mousse with raspberry

* * *

…

“Get to know it like the back of your hand,” Ennoshita tells him. “You can keep it at the pass tonight, but you’ll be expected to have it learned by tomorrow. We have our extensive wine menu too, but we leave that to Noya. Yes, he has it memorized. You can take that copy home with you.”

At least Kenma has always had a good memory. He looks down at the paper version of the dinner menu in his hands. “Just chocolate mousse?”

Ennoshita smiles at him over his shoulder. “You’ve never tasted Kageyama’s mousse. We’ll head up in a sec.”

At the front of the house, Akaashi and Hinata are welcoming in the first table. They bow, speak for a moment, Hinata’s perfect posture and Akaashi’s refined disposition that Kenma wonders if he can match. His shoulders feel heavy, and even with the kitchen starting to come to life, ready for service, he still feels it in the middle of his back every once in a while—that single-eyed gaze, like a pin there, or a claw.

Hinata leads the couple to their table, a cordial smile and many bows of the head.

“Forward march,” Ennoshita says to him. Kenma follows him to the doors.

It comes in a wave: table after table, order after order, back and forth between the house and the pass more times than he can count, getting glances into the kitchen, of the chefs, before moving back out again. Being careful to pay attention to the things Ennoshita says and the way he carries his platter and where he puts his hands and how he bows his head and smiles, because even if this might be his one and only night, Kenma will be damned if he makes a fool of himself. If he doesn’t put up a good fight.

He will at least come out of this with an interesting story to share with his lovely, pitying friends.

He’s been trailing Ennoshita for what must be two hours—the platinum clock confirms—before they take a moment at the pass and Ennoshita suggests that Kenma is prepared enough for him to step back and let him take the lead.

“I think you’re on it,” Ennoshita says with that almost sly look of confidence they all seem to have in Kenma. A look that says, _Just try leaving after this. Just wait._

Kenma sighs.

If there wasn’t a written test before, there’s a practical test now. Prepared feels like an overstatement, and his heart has been running a steady, quick-paced beat in his chest since the doors opened. Things move fast enough during service that he can’t tell if it’s his anxiety or actual physical exertion, and every time he starts to think about it, something else is happening and he forgets again.

Keep yourself busy was right. The only thing that matters right now is not stopping.

_We stay in motion_ …

Prophetic words from nothing like a prophet.

“You’ve got the basics down,” Ennoshita says. “You haven’t looked at the menu since half an hour in, you have a steady hand and a good voice. You’re even getting the script. And I can see Akaashi watching you sometimes and he doesn’t have a horrified expression. Think you can handle the wheel?”

When Kenma looks at him, Ennoshita is wearing half a smile: _We all know you can. Do you?_

He takes a breath and sighs it out, gazing into the house. “I’ll do my best.”

Ultimately, the first part of everything—the job itself—isn’t that bad. It’s simple and repetitive enough to not mess it up, but requires enough mental capacity to not be completely mind-numbing. And Ennoshita is reassuring, and the customers are extremely polite, and once in a while Kenma gets a glimpse of Hinata’s orange tuft, hustling through the house in the same fluid, practiced way as Ennoshita—no longer frantic like he was before service, a smile on his face and a cool ease in the way he moves around. The silver platters he takes from the pass to his tables never waver. Right now, Hinata looks in his element.

“He’s a good one,” Ennoshita says to him while they’re at the pass awaiting the final appetizer plate for a table of three women. “We were lucky he worked so hard to stay here. That he enjoyed his first night despite things.”

Things. That’s the other part.

So far, it has only been glances—the feeling on his back, the tick of the corner of Kuroo’s mouth when they meet eyes over the pass. Otherwise, Kuroo has been too busy barking out orders at the chefs to do anything else. Futilely, Kenma prays that this is the most of it.

In the kitchen, Bokuto is calling out a time check with Terushima, Iwaizumi is at a stove with multiple pans searing at once, and Kageyama has a whisk dipped in caramel held high above an antigriddle, drizzling it in thin, artistic patterns that freeze almost instantly. At the pass, Tsukishima pours into a flat-rimmed bowl what Kenma recognizes easily as the mushroom cream orzo, twisting the pan in his grip and creating a perfectly even surface. Behind him, Bokuto follows with two maitake mushroom clusters that he places in the middle, dusting them with fresh parsley with a flick of the wrist that seems straight out of a movie. The final touch is Terushima, bringing a glistening square of soy sauce gelatin on a cold metal scraper, delicately sliding it onto the hot orzo where it will somehow, no matter the timing, only begin to melt once the plate hits the customers’ table. Kuroo is the last one to follow, expediting, a cloth in hand to wipe the rim of the bowl.

Each time he’s come to the pass for service, Kenma has marveled at the process of it all and the way the men move in the kitchen. He’s had multiple brief moments to wonder how, with zero experience, he actually ended up working in this restaurant tonight.

“He’s improved incredibly,” Ennoshita adds, still looking out at Hinata. “Because it worked on him, too. Being here.”

Kenma looks back to where Hinata is chatting momentarily with an older couple at one of the side booths. “Did it?”

Ennoshita smiles at him.

“Service.”

They turn to the pass and Kenma meets Kuroo’s gaze as he places the final plate onto Kenma’s platter. “Yes, Chef.”

Kuroo’s mouth does its usual. “Have I got a natural in my hands tonight?”

“Shouldn’t it be _on_ your hands, Chef?” Ennoshita drawls, leaning closer to Kuroo. Kenma appreciates the defense.

Kuroo flicks his gaze to him. “Careful, Chikara,” he lilts back.

Ennoshita just laughs once. Kenma pulls his eyes away from Kuroo’s and sweeps the platter into his palm.

As they move away, Kuroo’s voice raises behind them: “Kageyama, this isn’t a Jackson Pollock. I don’t care if you’re a baker—be precise. You’re wasting time being sloppy with your work. Don’t think I won’t toss it into the garbage. Would you like to start over?”

It was perfect work as far as Kenma could tell, and Kageyama is enjoyable to watch—he has a graceful technique, and the caramel webs are beautiful and probably taste divine, if the honey has anything to say about it. Kageyama’s voice just comes out as his usual flat, “No, Chef.”

“ _Delicate_ ,” Kuroo emphasizes.

“Yes, Chef.”

Kenma holds back an eye roll. “You put up with this,” he mutters as they walk through the house.

“He gets on them a lot more than us,” Ennoshita says. “Honestly, Akaashi and I have it the easiest on that front. I’m not a chef and I’m not you or Hinata, and Akaashi is untouchable. Iwaizumi takes the most shit.”

Kenma’s brow twitches. “Why?”

“Because he’s the _rotisseur_. And because he handles it the best.”

“I don’t understand the hierarchy.”

Ennoshita chuckles. “Consider this a monarchy.”

They reach the table of women, and Kenma locks into the motions. Milliseconds in his head: flipping through the files of the six tables they’re serving right now, finding this one, remembering which woman ordered which dish, color-coded by dress, last names on display in little white tabs above their folder of information Akaashi told them before opening the doors.

He puts on a professional smile. “I have the sunchoke.” He places it in front of navy dress, Ms. Hasegawa from Sony. “The golden-only beets.” Ms. Ishizu in the black dress, also Sony, smiles wider at him for remembering the modification she asked for, and Kenma thinks of the salute Terushima gave him when he brought the order to the kitchen, the _Roger that_ and his usual smile _._ “And the mushroom orzo.” He places the final dish in front of Ms. Eto, Tokyo Electric, and says, “The soy sauce jelly will melt over the orzo, and the flavors will blend together and soak into the maitake mushrooms. Our _saucier_ recommends a quick swirl before eating.”

“Everything looks beautiful,” Eto says.

“Would you like more wine?” He motions with a gloved hand to the dwindling glass of Hasegawa. Upon arriving, they asked for the sommelier and Kenma brought Noya over to make his suggestion with their orders. The initial wine service—removal of the cork, explanation of the wine and its history, and the first pour and taste for everyone—is up to him when he brings out the bottle, but anything following, unless Noya happens to be at the table, is for the servers.

“Yes, thank you,” she says.

Kenma moves to her right and picks up the bottle of Israelian petite sirah at the lower third with his right hand, the label facing her. He pours at an angle into the middle of the glass, and after a centimeter or two, twists the bottle to prevent any drops from sliding down the neck as he rights it again. He only had to watch Ennoshita do this once before he had it down.

He places the bottle back at the center of the table. “Is there anything else I can do for you?” Three head shakes, words of thanks. “If you need anything, please don’t hesitate to ask. Please enjoy, and I’ll be back to take your entrée orders whenever you’re ready.”

The women smile and thank him again, and he bows his head and tucks the platter under his arm to make his way back to the pass.

Ennoshita’s voice comes from over his shoulder: “Well done. It’s not that hard, is it.”

Kenma almost jumps. He forgot Ennoshita was there, zoned into server mode once the table comes into view. Each action in the house is compartmentalized, a series of steps—seating, taking orders, wine service, going to the pass—everything flowing together into a combined, continuous whole. The hardest part of it is calling out the orders once he gets back to the kitchen—not because he has to memorize them, but because speaking up loud enough for everyone to hear him over the din of their cooking gives him anxiety. But even then, everyone, even if they don’t look up from their work, has their ears open and responds equally to him as the newcomer as they would to Hinata, Ennoshita, or Akaashi—with a solid, entrusting _Yes._

Only two hours in and everything already feels automatic, even natural. Like getting up in the morning, like the muscle memory combinations of buttons and triggers on a controller. Like the gloves molding to his hands.

He blinks, then sighs again. “Don’t say it.”

Ennoshita does his usual laugh. “Hey, I’m not saying anything. But I know the feeling. We all know the feeling.” He puts a hand on Kenma’s shoulder as the kitchen comes back into view over the wall. “Take it over, yeah?”

He falls into a rhythm.

For a while, Ennoshita follows him instead, watching over the way he handles things on his own, but at a certain point Kenma looks behind him and Ennoshita isn’t there anymore—off serving other tables on his own. He gives Kenma brief check-ins when they meet at the pass, but otherwise, Kenma’s coach has set him free with confidence.

But it feels fine. It almost feels _good._ Everything he does makes sense, and he feels a level of command having been left to his own devices so early on. And Ennoshita was right—Akaashi does look over at him once in a while, and while he keeps an emotional distance on his face, he definitely doesn’t look upset. The manager with his strict rules and dedication speech and ‘I’ll send you home for the wrong shade of black shoes’ almost seems impressed.

Last night, when they were shopping for the right shade, Tendou was way more excited than he was—Kenma’s own personal hype man.

_“You’re gonna slaughter it,” Tendou told him._

_“Choice of words,” Kenma muttered back, leaning down to tug on one of his fifth pair of shoes._

_Tendou groaned, holding the other shoe out for him and tilting his head back, exasperated. “Point is, you’re finally gonna get out of the house. You’ve needed to, anyway. I worry about you.”_

_“You sound very sincere.” He took the other shoe._

_Tendou poked his lower lip out. “You’re like my little brother. But it’s time to throw you headlong out of the nest.”_

_“Has anyone ever told you you’re sadistic?” Kenma stood up in the shoes, wiggling his toes around. “These?” He put his foot on display._

_“Waka tells me all the time. Let’s try pair number six.”_

_“Thanks for that.” He sighed. “If this is any indication of this job.”_

_Tendou just grinned at him, holding out the open shoe box. “It’s waitering. How hard can it be?”_

As is often the case, Tendou wasn’t wrong. Even being a waiter _here_ isn’t that hard. Kenma is doing it right, and doing it well. At the very least, he’s good at this job.

Though he should be more tired. It’s nearing ten p.m. and he stayed up until two this morning with Tendou and has been moving nonstop since midday. But he feels fine, invigorated almost, like along with the sounds of the restaurant, Tendou has picked out a theme song in his head for him, one of the heavy classical pieces Tendou likes to listen to while he’s performing a total-annihilation hospital-grade sanitization on their apartment during the weekends as he makes Kenma sit crisscross on his bed for three hours, Switch in hand. It feels purposeful moving through the house. It feels like he’s actually…

Ennoshita’s voice: … _doing something._

_Doing something?_

_It’s something you have to experience being here yourself. With him._

He’s so engrossed in this service that he almost forgot about Kuroo.

Almost, if it weren’t for that claw on his back.

As he passes one of his tables, he glances over at the kitchen. Iwaizumi is plating the Kobe dish at the pass while Tsukishima expedites. Kuroo is standing there, arms crossed in his black jacket, gazing out at the house, and even from far enough away that the details of his face aren’t perfectly clear, Kenma can feel the direct line between them, taut and invisible in the air. He walks a little slower, avoiding chair backs and table edges without even looking, hands held behind his back as he forces himself to maintain the gaze, to not look away, because whether it’s intimidation or something else, Kuroo isn’t going to win so easily. He’ll have to try harder than that.

_Is_ it a win? A small victory? Or is this all totally in vain?

It takes Tsukishima three tries to get Kuroo’s attention. Kuroo turns his face towards him just as Tsukishima turns his face towards Kenma. This time, Kenma breaks it, looking away at the customers instead.

He refocuses and pulls his senses back in. The gentle murmur of the house is familiar now, the quiet voices and laughs and clinking of silver from the diners. In the background, the kitchen: Hinata calling out a new table’s worth of orders, Kuroo calling for service from Ennoshita at the pass, the sizzling of scallops in a pan from Bokuto, the burst of a flambé from Terushima and Tsukishima asking him to taste something, the sliding of a cast iron pan into an oven by Iwaizumi, the quick hand-whipping of mascarpone and heavy cream from Kageyama. Everyone in their rightful place, with the abilities that earned them a position in this restaurant.

What does Kenma bring?

_“Besides, you have skill sets,” Tendou told him. “Do you need a different size or something?”_

_Kenma struggled on the sixth pair. “Like what? I can read and I’m good at video games?” The twelfth shoe finally slotted onto his foot. His fingertips hurt. “How do you live in these?”_

_“Calfskin wears in. And hey, video games give you good reflexes. You get great with your hands and fingers. At least I did. Ask Waka.”_

_“Tendou.”_

_Tendou clapped his hands together, wide-eyed at Kenma’s feet. “Those are it. Definitely.”_

He’s coming up on one of Hinata’s booths and notices that a bottle of champagne he imagines is at least a few tens of thousands is sitting on the edge of the table. Hinata wouldn’t have put it there—bottles go in the middle, equidistant from the diners. One of them must have moved it.

As he’s about to pass, the man at the table knocks the bottle with his arm. It slides a few centimeters before tipping over the edge of the table at an angle towards the floor. Kenma’s gloved hand reaches out and catches it at the base of the neck before he thinks. He places it back on the table, not a drop spilled. They look up at him, surprise still on their faces, and he gives them a bow before continuing on.

Whatever he brings, it isn’t nothing.

“That was cool!” Hinata says to him when he reaches the pass again.

Kenma sees Kuroo moving back through the hallway toward the pantry and sighs internally in relief. “It just happened,” he says.

“You look in the zone out there.”

Kenma looks up to see Terushima, plating with Iwaizumi and Bokuto, a bottle of his horseradish cream in his hand as Iwaizumi slides expertly cooked slices of Kobe beef—perfectly pink in the middle with a deep sear on the outer edges—onto a bed of barley Bokuto just laid down. Bokuto tops it with sautéed button mushrooms and shallots, and a little tumbleweed of microgreens.

Kenma says, “Oh. Thank you.”

Terushima smiles and looks to Tsukishima. “Chef.”

Tsukishima comes over and takes a final look at the dish as Terushima dots the cream around the plate. “Perfect. Service.”

Hinata perks up towards them, platter at the ready. “Yes, Chef.” Tsukishima places the Kobe next to one of their salmon dishes. Hinata rotates the platter and floats away with it.

“Getting the hang of it,” Terushima says. He spins the bottle in his hand.

Kenma nods. “I think so.”

Terushima turns and waves a hand at him over his shoulder: _Know so._

“Tokaji and mousse, Chef.” It’s Kageyama, bringing up the two desserts Kenma will be taking to a Mr. and Mrs. Yamada near the front. The mousse truly is just regular (or at least, regular-looking) chocolate mousse in a glass with some raspberries on top, chilled and glittering droplets of water. But the Tokaji dish is something else. It’s a square of yellow cake that looks fluffy and light, with a dusted black top layer, paper-thin, reminiscent of the plum skins themselves. The cake is imbued with Tokaji, he assumes, and dotted around it are little shining balls of Tokaji jelly, the rich amber color of the wine, glinting in the light. Atop the cake is a perfectly symmetrical quenelle of mascarpone ice cream, and placed into it is a disc-shaped web of fine, vitreous frozen caramel, a color match for the jelly. A third of the edge of the plate has a light drizzle of white chocolate ganache.

It looks like artwork, a masterpiece of confectionery, and Kenma hears Kuroo’s order of _Delicate_ in his head and thinks it was the perfect word to describe it.

“Careful with it,” Tsukishima says to him. “Service.”

It’s the first time Kenma is hearing his voice up close. Nasally, low and airy, with the initial impression that he doesn’t care, but Kenma gathers an undertone of complete focus and total commitment in it—like in reality, this is what matters more than anything. Like even speaking too loudly in the presence of this cuisine will tarnish it.

“Yes, Chef,” Kenma says. He looks at Kageyama and gives him a nod, and he takes the platter in both hands and lifts it carefully into his palm. At the back hallway, Kuroo starts to reemerge, carrying a bag of grapefruits. He pulls a carving knife from the wall, puts the bag on the counter, and slashes it open in one motion. Kenma has a second to think about it before he reminds himself to walk away before Kuroo’s eye locks in again. He turns on his center, shifting the platter with him, careful not to tilt it even a few degrees, and goes to the front of the house.

_“I don’t know if that’s relevant enough.” Kenma sat back down and started to bring a toe to his heel to kick the shoes off, then thought better of it. They were probably a lot more than he wanted to afford, and Tendou would lose it if he scuffed them before he even got to the checkout._

_“Well, you have a whole literature degree too, so, you know,” Tendou said. “That’s something.”_

_“I’ll bring in my diploma and offer it as a fancy napkin.”_

_Tendou laughed, this cackle that comes out when he really means it. “You got hired, didn’t you? If you needed some special secret ability, they would have picked someone who had it.”_

_Kenma placed the shoes back in the box and closed it, sighing. “I guess.”_

_“There’s got to be some reason they chose you, so just be happy about that.” Tendou took the box from him, hooking it on his hip. He put his hand out to help Kenma up._

Some reason.

In the end, Tendou was right about that, too. He didn’t need a skill set to get this job. He just needed the look. How convenient.

_You’re putting up a fight, remember?_ he tells himself. _If you’re more than just a showpiece, prove it._

He’s bowing and turning away from the couple he just brought dessert to before he knows it—the motions of yet another delivered dish simple in his head, just with different blanks of patron names and ingredients to be filled in. Platter tucked under his arm, he heads toward one of his other tables that he seated ten minutes ago who asked for some time to look over the menus: a Mr. Shimada and Mr. Takinoue.

“Have you had time to look over the menu?” he asks them.

Takinoue holds one up in front of himself, focused on it, fingers on his chin. Kenma is about to start thinking that there are few options, it can’t be very hard to pick, but then he realizes it’s the wine menu—a list of over two hundred that somebody here has perfectly memorized.

Shimada looks up at him, adjusting his glasses, and says, “We think so, but—well, we’ve just come from one of our clubs and were disappointed to only find champagne being served there instead of champagne, red, and white like we usually have at other locations.”

Being disappointed about having to order champagne at a club sounds like a rich people problem.

Kenma pushes annoyed thoughts away. “If you’re looking for a wine pairing, we have a master sommelier in house who can help you with your choices.”

Shimada smiles at him. “That would be lovely.”

Kenma turns, finding Noya’s frame across the house, headed with a bottle toward another table. He raises his hand up to chest height, signaling, and Noya seems to sense it and looks over. He grins and nods, gesturing with the bottle in his gloved hands: _Gimme a few._

Kenma nods and turns back around. “He’ll be over in just a moment.”

Shimada smiles again as Takinoue places the menu down.

And suddenly, the routine breaks. Since beginning service at six, this is the first time Kenma hasn’t known exactly what to do, or had a specific next step to move on to, a line to perform. He’s called for Noya before, but he came right away. What now? He can’t just stand here; he can’t just walk away. No Ennoshita to lean on.

He feels a prickle on his neck, but it’s not the same claw as before. He glances sideways to see Akaashi watching him from near the kitchen, standing with his hands folded in front of him, covered in black save for his face and the clip shining gold from his tie. Waiting to see what Kenma’s strategy is.

Then it’s time for the one thing Kenma is the worst at: engaging in a conversation.

He looks at his patrons again and clears his throat. “Might I ask what club you two were visiting?”

Shimada brightens a little bit, bringing his elbows onto the table and folding his hands together. “We’re part of a little literature gathering with some friends. We meet at different locations, usually for dinner, but Yuu and I managed to snag a reservation here last month.”

Takinoue crosses his arms in triumph. “Lucky someone cancelled, eh?”

Shimada smiles at him.

Kenma’s shoulders straighten out a little. Considering their age, he thought they’d meant a bar club, but no—a _book_ club. “Oh, what were you discussing? I’m a literature graduate.”

Takinoue finally looks up at him, and Shimada grins. “Shakespeare. _Henry the Fifth._ ”

Kenma leans onto his toes. “Really? I took a Shakespeare course in my third year.”

He flashes back to it, the credits he sometimes feels like he wasted, the degree he sometimes thinks he should have changed, but also the fun he had reading both original and modern translations and watching subtitled films from England, class discussions he rarely participated in but always listened to, the professor he admired for caring only about the text, the art, and not the university’s regulations for assignments and exams.

And then he flashes to something more specific, a passage that suddenly comes to mind. He’s always had a good memory.

He asks them, “Are you thinking more white or red wine tonight?”

Takinoue’s eyebrow lifts and Shimada tilts his head—both probably wondering about the actual sommelier. “I was thinking white?” Shimada says, looking at Takinoue.

“All right,” Takinoue concedes, “but nothing sweet.”

Perfect.

“A good sherris sack hath a two-fold operation in it,” Kenma recites.

Why this passage, he has no idea, but if it’s coming to mind, he’ll make good use of it. Shimada and Takinoue blink up at him.

“It ascends me into the brain; dries me there all the foolish and dull and curdy vapours which environ it; makes it apprehensive, quick, forgetive, full of nimble and fiery and delectable shapes, which, delivered o’er to the voice, the tongue, which is the birth, becomes excellent wit.”

“Brilliant,” Shimada says. “ _Henry the Fourth?_ ”

“Falstaff,” Takinoue says.

“Yuu, he should join our club.”

Takinoue lets out a laugh.

Kenma feels a smile come on. He bows gently. “If you’d prefer a darker, drier white, oloroso sherry might be a good choice. And don’t worry—it’s scented but not sweet. Otherwise,” he touches his hair, “that’s all I really know.”

“You are fantastic,” Shimada tells him.

“He’s our newest pretty boy.” Noya’s hand claps Kenma on the shoulder and he startles.

Finally. And should he be saying that?

_Noya’s an exception_. _He’s a master sommelier, after all._ Right—Noya can do what he wants. Noya has presence.

“Doesn’t he fit our name?” Noya grins at them.

They laugh. “Very feline,” Shimada agrees.

Kenma bows his head again and clears his throat. “Thank you. This is Nishinoya, our master sommelier.”

Noya bows, and Shimada says, “We’re looking for the best pairing with an oloroso sherry.”

Noya nods. “A great choice. We happen to have a two-thousand-four Barbadillo Reliquia straight from Andalusia that might be something you’d enjoy.”

So Noya has good Spanish pronunciation, too.

“For the bottle?” Takinoue asks.

“Fifty-nine thousand,” Noya tells them.

It spears Kenma through the chest. He already knows the prices of the food, and adding on that much just for one bottle of wine? That’s most of his share of the rent for the month. He does his best to keep a straight face.

“Sounds perfect,” Shimada says.

“Wonderful,” Noya says, and Kenma can hear the slight grin in his voice, sensing the impaled shock standing next to him.

Kenma clears his throat and manages a, “Lovely choice.”

Shimada chuckles. “What was your name again?”

Kenma gets a different surge of emotion—pride this time. Even most of his professors didn’t care much about his name. “Kozume Kenma,” he says.

“We really appreciate it, Kozume-san,” Takinoue says.

“And if we manage to get another table in the future,” Shimada says, “then we’ll be sure to request you if you’re here.”

In the future. If you’re here.

_Just one night… Right?_

Kenma bows deeply. “Thank you very much.”

“Then with the Oloroso,” Noya says, “might I suggest, from our fantastic _poissonier_ , the seared scallops with…”

It fades out from Kenma’s consciousness as he stands there, thinking. Akaashi’s gaze is gone and the other one is back. He tells himself not to look but does anyway, and Kuroo is there, and Kenma looks away again, and Noya is still talking to the patrons, and it’s really just one night, just one go at this job, just for his friends’ sake, just so he doesn’t look like he gave up right away.

Tendou’s voice: _How bad can it be?_

Ennoshita’s: _I guess that depends on how you see it_.

Kuroo’s: _Have I got a natural in my hands tonight?_

“And thank you again, Kenma.”

Shimada’s voice pulls him out of it and he bows again. “My pleasure. If you need anything else, please don’t hesitate to ask.”

“Come on, dude,” Noya mutters, just loud enough for him to hear. He puts his hand on Kenma’s back and leads him away toward the pass. When they’re far enough, Noya says, “You just landed a solid right jab. Keep going.” He peels away to his wall of wines, pulling a wooden stepladder from under the counter.

Kenma stands watching him, dazed. He looks toward the pass where Ennoshita is grinning at him. He goes.

“Not a complaint, I assume?” Ennoshita asks him.

Kenma shakes his head slowly.

“If you ever get one, it doesn’t matter what it is—you have to report it to Kuroo.”

Kenma nods slowly.

“But whatever that was, well done,” Ennoshita says with a chuckle. “Two very happy customers and a Noya compliment.”

“They said they’d request me in the future,” Kenma tells him, unsure why.

Ennoshita’s brows go up. “Well, all right then. What did I tell you?” Kenma can’t find a reply, so Ennoshita says, “And I think Akaashi really likes you.”

In the kitchen, sharply: “ _Iwaizumi_.”

Kenma tenses his shoulders. “I know. But it’s not Akaashi I’m worried about.”

“Since when do you allow more than a millimeter of grey under your sear?” Kuroo is saying, voice raised. “You’re usually pinpoint on your foie gras. Are you distracted?”

“No, Chef.”

“It looks good to me,” Tsukishima says evenly.

Kuroo looks at him, then back at Iwaizumi, still cooking other dishes as Kuroo berates him. “You’re serving a Honda exec. You don’t have a millimeter’s room for error. Redo it—and get your score more symmetrical. Terushima, toss your reduction and start over. I want both in under six minutes.”

Iwaizumi and Terushima simultaneously: “Yes, Chef.”

Kenma watches Terushima pour a saucepan of what’s probably perfectly-done chardonnay grapefruit reduction worth two thousand on its own into a sink, down the drain. He wipes his furrowed brow with the back of his arm and moves back to his stovetop. At the same time, Kuroo takes the pan of foie gras Iwaizumi brought to the pass from Tsukishima’s hand and overturns it into the trash.

Kenma turns to Ennoshita. “You’re kidding.”

Ennoshita sighs. “Like I said. Them more than us.”

A frown pulls his eyebrows together. “But that’s…”

He trails off because Ennoshita is shaking his head at him, almost imperceptibly.

“We serve nothing less than perfection from this kitchen, Kozume.”

Kenma flinches and turns to find Kuroo next to him, leaning across the pass. His face is right there, the closest he’s been since he arrived, and Kenma gets a horrifying intrusive thought: that Kuroo—in his jacket with its stiff military collar high under his sharp, tilted jaw, the thick dark hair that conceals part of his face, the eye still visible—is not exactly ugly.

Kuroo smirks at him, and his hand comes up to twirl his fingers into a piece of Kenma’s hair.

Kenma freezes.

“Are you feeling all right?” Kuroo asks. “Things can get a little intense.”

Kenma can’t get words out.

“He’s doing just fine, Chef,” Ennoshita says, his voice low.

Behind Kuroo, Bokuto is bringing fried sunchoke up to the pass to plate one of his appetizers. Kenma glances at him, but Bokuto keeps his head down.

Kuroo’s fingers keep twirling lazily, just barely grazing against Kenma’s cheekbone.

Hinata comes up to the pass focused on the kitchen, but when he sees Kenma there and Kuroo’s hand, his lips press into a line and his shoulders hike up. He turns stiffly away, saying anything to Tsukishima.

“Well, that’s good,” Kuroo says. “At the very least, it’s nice to have you at my place for the night.”

Kenma stands there, waiting for somebody to say something, for Ennoshita to say _Kuroo_ or for Tsukishima to call for him or _something_. For himself to snap out of it. But Ennoshita just clenches his jaw and angles away, and Tsukishima is paying attention to Bokuto, and Kenma can’t even open his mouth to fight back. He doesn’t hear anything except for Kuroo’s low hum right in his ear.

Kuroo takes care to brush the backs of his fingers against Kenma’s cheek as he lets the hair slip through his fingers. He straightens and says, “Iwaizumi, Terushima. Time.” He turns away.

“Three minutes, Chef,” they both say.

Kenma looks at Ennoshita. Ennoshita just looks back at him.

“Sunchoke and crab, Chef,” Bokuto says.

Kuroo starts looking over the dishes, finishing the plating.

Back and forth. Kuroo jabs, Kenma blocks; Kenma swings for a hook, Kuroo evades. This time, it feels like a knee to the stomach. He can see himself in the ring on his hands and knees, trying to breathe, his hair hanging in his face, while Kuroo stands over him with his gloves ready, waiting to see if Kenma is going to call the round and give up.

_I guess that depends on how you see it._

His cheek tingles where Kuroo’s fingers brushed against his skin. His heart is racing, pulsing against his eardrums. His chest feels blazing hot.

“Service.”

Kenma looks again at Hinata as Kuroo hands him the appetizers. Hinata gives him a pitiful glance in return that just says _I know. I’m sorry_ , before he takes his platter and goes back to his customers.

No more pity. No more.

Ennoshita: “Kenma. Don’t.”

Kenma lands an unintended glare on him and then turns, facing into the kitchen, following Kuroo with his eyes as Kuroo moves over to where Kageyama is for whatever reason, it doesn’t matter, he could be anywhere and Kenma would still be opening his mouth, drawing in a searing breath to tell Kuroo to—

“Be prepared to follow all orders given to you and to defer to the chef in any instance regardless of the circumstance.”

Bokuto, standing there at the pass, wiping clean his chef’s knife with a towel hooked into an apron tied around his hips.

Kenma says, “You expect me to—”

“He can be a real piece of shit, we know.” Bokuto looks at him, offering the sort of smile that makes half of Kenma feel understood and protected, and half of him even angrier. “You’re gonna be okay, kid. He’ll get over it eventually. Hinata’s doing fine.”

Kenma feels his brow twitch again. “I didn’t sign up for this.”

“I know that,” Bokuto says. “We get it. But Akaashi told you that line for a reason. Trust me—it’ll make your life easier if you just…”

Kenma understands. Bokuto doesn’t have to tell him outright. Even with him being the new fighter, the underdog challenger everyone is rooting for, it isn’t all about charging in—it’s about strategy. Where Hinata won with pure defense, and Noya won with a full-on attack, neither of those alone will work for him. He’s the type who has to go into things observing from every angle, whether it’s a video game, a research paper for school, or this messed up job.

_If you just endure it,_ Bokuto’s silence tells him.

He sighs, trying to relax. He starts to bring his hand up to rub his face, touch his hair, but it flinches away when it reaches that spot on his cheek, and he lowers it back to his side. “Maybe I should just slap him like Noya did.”

Bokuto chuckles. “Ennoshita told you?”

Kenma looks to where Ennoshita was standing, but he’s disappeared into the house.

“Well, I hate to say this,” Bokuto says, “but you’re expendable, kid. You don’t even have the uniform yet.”

Kenma looks down at himself.

Bokuto shrugs again. “Hey, stick around and you’ll look just as fitted as the other guys.” Bokuto lands his knife blade on the shoulder of his jacket, pointing it subtly towards the back of the kitchen where Kuroo is still standing with Kageyama, plucking individual lavender flowers from a sprig with curved, pointed tweezers. “Don’t quit because of _that_ guy, all right? The best thing you can do is bore him.”

“It’s easy for you to say,” Kenma mutters.

Bokuto concedes with a nod. “But we’re the ones watching you, and you’re doing better than anyone else ever has on their first night. Even Ennoshita and Akaashi. Don’t tell them I said that.” He moves away, waving his knife at Kenma. “And don’t throw the check away, okay?”

Kenma stands there watching him go.

There is something fundamentally wrong with this place.

At the pass, Iwaizumi and Terushima are bringing up their parts of the foie gras dish, a minute earlier than they promised, glittering individual bubbles of pink grapefruit pulp sprinkled on by Tsukishima as they plate.

“Back to work, Kozume,” Kuroo calls out. Somehow, his voice is clear over everything else.

Kenma dares a glance at him, but he isn’t even looking up from the lavender.

Back and forth. Hot and cold.

“Yes, Chef.”

Another hour slips by. More information from the sheet at the pass, more tables, more hailing Noya, more trips to the kitchen and platters of dishes and moments to awe at the gorgeous plates the guys create, even though it already feels like Kenma has seen them a million times before. More listening to Kuroo bark orders and chew out his three-star chefs for the smallest of things. More being watched by Akaashi but never pulled aside. More glances at Hinata across the room and points where they’re ice skaters on a rink passing fluidly by each other without a single bump. An apology to Ennoshita that just gets a shake of the head, a _No—I’m sorry_ , and a pat on the shoulder and _You handled it well. Keep going._

The claw on his back. The static on his cheek.

He had to bid Shimada and Takinoue good evening after bringing back Takinoue’s card, and Akaashi led them to the door with a bow and the line he gives to each group of diners as he sends them off: _We thank you earnestly for your patronage._ He hopes the two of them come back after their club again one day, maybe to mention Tanizaki or Oates or Murakami or Eliot. They were a brief respite in an otherwise bizarre night.

That is if, in the future, he’s still here.

He finishes pouring second glasses from a bottle of Argentinian malbec for one of his tables, bows, says his lines, and goes next to check up on a middle-aged couple he served entrées to not long ago: a Mr. and Mrs. Uematsu from KDDI.

Walking up to the table, he can already sense that the routine is about to be broken again. What this time?

“Is everything enjoyable for you?” he asks them, drab but pleasant waiter voice on.

“My wife’s scallops are wonderful,” the man says, “but for me, the salmon is a bit underseasoned.”

_It doesn’t matter what it is—you have to report it to Kuroo._

Oh. That’s great.

“My apologies, sir,” Kenma says, maintaining the respectful lilt while his heart already starts picking up the pace. “Please allow me to let our chef know and we will remedy this situation for you.”

“Oh, it’s not very big of a deal,” the wife says.

_Then why tell me?_

“I’m just letting you know,” the husband adds on, like Kenma has any control, like it will make any difference or matters at all.

Kenma pulls on a polite smile and improvises something he figures Ennoshita might say. “We care very much about your experience here with us and will provide the best service we can offer to you. Our chef prides himself on the satisfaction of every customer. If you give me just a moment, I will inform him of this issue and we will have a solution for you right away.”

The wife gives him a genuine smile, and the husband a thankful nod. “We appreciate that very much.”

“Of course,” Kenma says. He bows, cursing this whole thing, before turning to go back toward the kitchen.

There are only two ways he can see this going. Kuroo could just not mind it; have Iwaizumi, Bokuto, and Terushima redo the dish and then have Kenma take it back out, or Akaashi, or maybe Kuroo personally. Or, Kuroo could detonate.

He remembers the things he saw online about the slow decline in popularity of this restaurant. He remembers what Ennoshita said to him when Kuroo first arrived: _Sometimes he’s roaring mad… You never know with him._

Kenma knows well enough by now. A nice calm reaction doesn’t seem in sight. Maybe nobody in the kitchen is safe.

As he’s headed back, he catches Akaashi’s eye across the room. Maybe he looks worried, or panicked, or like he’s losing his mind behind a blank helpless façade, because Akaashi’s brows go down and he starts toward the point at the pass at which they’ll meet.

When Kenma gets there, Akaashi is next to him, awaiting the news.

Kenma puts his hands on the edge of the pass and says, in the most commanding voice he can manage, “Chef.”

For a fraction of a second, everybody looks up at him, even Iwaizumi and Kageyama, before it’s just Tsukishima’s flat gaze, and Kuroo walking over to him.

“Kozume,” he says.

Kenma clears his throat, forcing himself again to look into his eye, to not back down. “Uematsu at my table says his salmon is underseasoned.”

Iwaizumi immediately looks back up, his gaze landing on the back of Kuroo’s head. Kageyama sighs out through his nose, and Bokuto widens his eyes at the celery he’s finely julienning into translucent green curls, and Terushima runs his hand over his hair. Tsukishima looks at Kuroo’s face. Next to Kenma, Akaashi’s eyes close for a brief moment.

The corners of Kuroo’s lips twitch again, but this time downward, in something like a snarl.

Kenma stares up at him.

“Iwaizumi. Give me the box.”

“Chef,” Iwaizumi says.

“Chef, it’s a fresh batch,” Kageyama says, hand stiff around a stainless steel dariole mould.

“Give me the fucking box, Hajime.” Kuroo turns around with a hand out.

Kenma looks to the counter near Iwaizumi and sees a Tupperware container full of a sandy powder flecked with green: the honey thyme seasoning that Kageyama ground by hand during prep. He has a brief sensory memory of warm sweetness on his tongue.

“Hajime,” Bokuto says. He’s holding a plate out towards Iwaizumi.

Iwaizumi clenches his jaw, then takes the plate from Bokuto. He picks up the box, dumps maybe a hundred grams of the seasoning onto the plate, then hands the box over to Kuroo. He turns away and puts the plate down with a clatter on the counter, then his hands on the edge, head down.

Kuroo starts around the wall and out of the kitchen with the box in one hand.

Tsukishima throws him a glance. He turns back to the kitchen and says, “Keep moving.”

Everyone but Iwaizumi: “Yes, Chef.”

“There goes forty thousand,” Bokuto mutters.

Akaashi doesn’t say anything to Kenma, but he puts a light hand on his shoulder and tilts his head: _Follow._

It is his table, after all.

Kenma starts behind Kuroo, expecting Akaashi to take the rear, but when he looks back, Akaashi isn’t coming with him. He swallows hard, wondering what kind of test this part is supposed to be. He catches Hinata’s eye again—over at a front booth with Noya, and they both glance at him, then at Kuroo, then turn away.

All at once, it clicks in Kenma’s head. It’s not the kitchen who isn’t safe this time. It’s the house.

He wants to say something. He feels like he actually _needs_ to, like speaking up will be the only thing that can stop this. But who is he kidding.

At another table in the middle of the room, Ennoshita singles him out with his eyes and shakes his head: _Pick your battles, Kenma._

Bokuto’s unspoken voice: _Just endure it._

“Chef,” he says

Kuroo glances over his shoulder with his visible eye. It catches the glow from one of the table lamps and burns. “You know what’s good for you, Kozume.”

Kenma, so pathetically that he hates himself for it, shuts his mouth.

They reach the table. Mr. and Mrs. Uematsu look up at them with a smile.

Kuroo smiles back. “Good evening. I’m Kuroo Tetsurou, executive chef here at Tiger’s Eye.”

The wife smiles wider. “Oh, goodness, thank you for coming personally.”

The husband says, “Kozume-san here has been so helpful with—”

“I understand you have a complaint about the salmon you chose to pay ten thousand yen for?” Kuroo interrupts, grin plastered on.

Mrs. Uematsu leans back a little, and her husband stutters. “Oh, um—well—”

“Allow me to tell you why it costs that much,” Kuroo says. “We source from Alaska—some of the finest, heaviest, most mature and Omega-three-dense wild-caught Chinook salmon money can buy. It’s brought here fully refrigerated in a trip that takes less than twenty-four hours, and is expertly fileted by our _poissonier_ on the night you order your dish, as with tonight. When your order reaches our kitchen, our _rotisseur_ double checks your filet and then pan sears it to a tender, flaky pink with a fine, crisp outer crust.” Kuroo cocks his head just the slightest. “But I understand that it’s not the salmon itself? You believe it has been underseasoned, is that correct?”

The two of them stare up at him. Kenma’s stomach keeps sinking lower.

“Um…that’s correct,” Mr. Uematsu says.

Kuroo smiles more and holds up the box. “This is the seasoning we use on every salmon dish we’ve ever served here for the past year and a half. You might recognize it from the menu as the honey thyme glaze. Our honey comes from the Taurus Mountains in Turkey and goes for exactly eighty-six thousand two hundred yen a kilo. We get it in-comb, with the bees, and our _pâtissier_ hand-scrapes and dehydrates it, then hand grinds it with fresh thyme to make the powder mixture you see here. When dusted onto the salmon, it melts into a glaze. When eaten—when _tasted_ —it has notes of a buttery, almost leathery depth of sweetness when it hits your tongue, with a slow caramelized aftertaste just before you take the next bite. It combines with the natural earthy sweetness of the thyme and the pungent fattiness of the salmon and drowns your palate in gold.”

Kuroo pauses. In the silence, Kenma’s feet feel nailed to the ground. He watches, mortified, hands gripped too tight behind his back, as the couple stare wide-eyed up at Kuroo in the dim. The patrons around them have all but stopped talking. In Kenma’s periphery, Akaashi is finally walking over and he thinks, _You’re too late._ But maybe Akaashi knew that from the start. They’ve been too late since the moment the customer spoke up.

Kuroo’s plastic smile drops off, and his eye becomes sharp. “I expect your tongue isn’t refined enough to understand it. What—you want your salmon rubbed in it like a piece of backyard beef? You want me to drizzle some honey on your fucking fish like a biscuit? I’ve got some fake four-hundred-yen supermarket shit half-crystallized in a bottle at home I can run and get for you.”

“That’s enough.” Akaashi, materialized.

_Way too late._

“Underseasoned?” Kuroo says, and Kenma expects the next move before he gets the chance to bring his hand up. Kuroo lifts the box of seasoning and dumps it out over the man’s plate. It spills over the tablecloth and onto the floor, puffing up into a cloud, and Kenma has to turn his face to the side. Mrs. Uematsu yelps.

Kenma’s hand is raised not ten centimeters from the empty box. The back of his glove is dusted with a fine layer of dry honey, sticking into the crevice folds of the fabric and the dips between his fingers. His hand twitches, his fingers curl inward, and he pulls his arm away.

Kuroo lowers the box to his side. “Get out of my restaurant.”

“Tetsurou, that’s _enough_.”

Mrs. Uematsu is coughing.

Kuroo looks Akaashi in the eyes. “Definitely.” He turns to start walking away, but stops after a few steps. “New kid.”

Kenma clenches his dirty glove into a fist and hides it behind his back.

“Don’t bring customers by this table for the rest of the night,” Kuroo says. “Later, you’ll make sure it’s spotless.” He turns to face Kenma fully. “And when you’re carrying a platter of entrées, keep the salmon closest to the line from your wrist to your elbow. It weighs almost sixty grams more than any of the other dishes. You’ll stop being so careless tilting the tray as much as you do.”

Kenma flushes, embarrassed in front of the customers who are pretending like they aren’t looking or are staring unabashed at him there. Behind him, Mrs. Uematsu is still coughing and her husband is saying, “Oh my god.”

Was he tilting his platter? Did he lose focus for a second? How closely has Kuroo really been watching him?

He says quietly, “Yes, Chef.”

Kuroo’s jaw lifts and his eye catches light again, lidded, half of his iris muted yellow. His voice is quieter too, like maybe only Kenma can hear him. “I’m counting on you.” A smirk slices across his cheek.

He takes the empty box back to the kitchen.

“I apologize for this spectacle,” Akaashi is saying.

Kenma swallows hard. His mouth is very dry. He turns back to the table.

“Chef Kuroo has an unreasonable temper,” Akaashi says.

Kenma looks at him, and Akaashi glances back. The look in his eyes wraps a hand around Kenma’s core and crushes it, because it just says _Welcome to the show._

“Unreasonable,” Mr. Uematsu echoes back. His suit jacket is dusted. He blinks at flecks of thyme floating in his wine glass. The honey must have dissolved already.

“We had a reservation here for five months,” the wife says, still coughing, waving her hand in front of her face even though the dust has settled. “If this is the service your restaurant provides, you won’t see another yen from us again.”

Kenma’s voice starts coming out. “I am so sorry that he—”

“Allow me to bring you to the doors,” Akaashi says evenly.

Kenma wonders just how appalled his expression is when he looks at Akaashi. How much it shows on his face that he knows Akaashi is choosing to side with Kuroo.

Akaashi nods toward the kitchen: _Back to work._

Kenma steps back as Akaashi gathers the couple and leads them to the front of the restaurant, saying, “We thoroughly apologize on the chef’s behalf. Please do not hesitate to contact us if you require medical attention as a result of this incident.”

Kenma singles their speech out amongst everything else. The rest of the diners are hardly speaking anyway.

“Oh, we won’t,” the husband says.

The wife asks, “Why do you work with that awful man?”

Akaashi just opens a door for the two of them. He gestures gently with his other gloved hand for them to step through and leave. As the two of them look at it in disbelief, eyes still in shock from the whole ordeal, Akaashi says calmly, “We thank you earnestly for your patronage.”

Something fundamentally, horribly wrong.

“Kenma.” It’s Ennoshita behind him.

He barely jumps. “What.”

“Come on.”

He moves without thinking behind Ennoshita—through the house, past the open wall, through the kitchen, and into the back storage room. It’s just shelves and cabinets, random cleaning items, a washer and dryer, the vacuum Akaashi was using during prep in the corner. He stares at it, wondering how well it will clean honey powder from fabric flooring.

“You okay?” Ennoshita asks him.

Kenma looks at him. “Me? What about them?”

“Let’s get you a new pair of gloves.” Ennoshita pulls open a cabinet and reaches up to a shelf, taking down a basket filled with black gloves. “This is where we keep them.”

Kenma looks at the ones he has on—the left perfectly spotless, still molded to his fingers; the right sticky and discolored, like it’s faded out. Are his hands shaking? “Something here is very not right.”

“Like I said,” Ennoshita says, pulling out another pair. “Welcome to the business.”

“Bullshit. It’s him.”

Ennoshita doesn’t respond. He holds the gloves out to Kenma. “Here.”

“I don’t want those.” Kenma keeps his hands away, close to his chest like a child. “I want these.”

“You can’t work with dirty gloves.”

“Why are you all on his side?” Kenma pleads. “I don’t understand.”

Ennoshita pauses. They look at each other in the quiet of the room. Outside, the kitchen is the same noise as always. “I’m sorry I can’t explain it, Kenma. I’m sorry your first night is like this. I was hoping…” He shakes his head. “I thought, when he came in all right, that it would go smoothly for you. I promise not every night is this way. We don’t want you to quit—”

“Why?”

The answer comes out insistent, intense in Ennoshita’s eyes: “Because you seem like you can do something about it.”

Kenma recoils.

Ennoshita sighs and shakes his head again, running his hand through his hair. “Forget I said that. Just—take these, and let’s go back out. It’s almost midnight; we only have an hour left. Things will start slowing down now.”

“What?” He looks around, but there’s no clock in this room.

“Take a second if you need to.” Ennoshita points in the direction of the hall, opposite from the kitchen. “Door in the dark over there is the bathroom. But you’re still on duty.”

“Not if I don’t want to be.”

He feels like a fool the moment he says it.

Ennoshita laughs softly, sincerely. He takes Kenma’s hands and starts pulling the gloves off his fingers. “Nice bluff.” He tosses the old gloves onto a counter and hands the new ones over. “These should fit exactly the same, all right? If he says any more shit to you tonight, just bite your tongue and we’ll start over tomorrow.”

Kenma tries to remember what he was doing when he saw the application for this job. Was he eating breakfast? Had he just taken a break from gaming with Tendou? Was it his phone or his computer? Had he been job searching, or did it just come up? Was it light or dark out? What was he wearing?

What was he thinking?

“Hey.”

Kenma looks up. Ennoshita is in the doorway.

“Don’t let him win.” He smiles a little. “Some of the guys made their biggest bet yet.”

At midnight, the start of Monday, he’s back in the house. He gets questions from his other tables, offhand remarks about what happened, and he has to smile and redirect the conversation. The gloves feel wrong on his hands and he keeps moving his fingers. At fifteen past the hour, he brings the kitchen their final order, and they all give him the usual “Yes,” and it sounds the same but doesn’t. At half past, the final platter is being taken to a booth by Akaashi, Kageyama’s panna cotta and Tokaji cake. Bokuto claps his hands together, and Iwaizumi wipes his brow, and Tsukishima adjusts his glasses. Kageyama leans onto his arms on the countertop, and Terushima looks at Kenma and nods: _You made it_.

But he can’t tell if that’s true.

The last ten hours play in slides in his head: Bokuto greeting him at the door, meeting everyone one by one, Kuroo’s sloppy entrance, the taste of honey, the smell of lemon, _Who are you?_ , the ease with which he caught on, the stunning dishes and Kageyama’s cake, Terushima saying he looks in the zone, being in Kuroo’s hands metaphorically, Shimada and Takinoue and Shakespeare, being in Kuroo’s hand literally, Iwaizumi’s face when Kuroo took the box, watching the cloud of honey spill everywhere and the thyme in the wine glass and his platter tilted and Kuroo’s single blazing iris in the dark. The new gloves.

He looks down at his hands again. No, they aren’t shaking at all.

Next to him, Hinata says, “We can wash the other ones, you know.”

Kenma looks at him, and Hinata smiles brightly.

“That’s it,” Tsukishima says. “Well done, everyone. Good service.”

Just one night—

_Nice bluff._

—right?

He looks at Kuroo.

Kuroo says, “Shut it down.”

* * *

**HC: Shimada is a public relations representative for Yoshimoto Kogyo, Japan’s largest entertainment agency, and he travels frequently between Tokyo and Osaka for work. Takinoue is an investor and private hedge fund manager. The two of them met just over a year ago with a four-hour discussion of Murakami’s _Hard-Boiled Wonderland and the End of the World._ The status of their relationship is unknown, as they keep it very quiet among colleagues, but there is a rumor circulating that Takinoue recently purchased a small condo near Yoshimoto Kogyo’s Osaka headquarters.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had the pleasure of working with @Kurr_Dappya (Twitter) on an absolutely brilliant art piece for this chapter. She is extremely talented, I couldn’t have asked for a better artist to create this scene, and I want to thank her again for making this beautiful work! You can find her other social media information in the notes for Chapter 1. Here’s the link to her piece:  
> 
> 
> [Art by Kurr_Dappya](https://twitter.com/Kurr_Dappya/status/1307569868158320640)
> 
> Most recipes for this story were found on (and usually modified from) the Great British/Italian Chefs website. If you want to see what the original dishes by their actual chefs look like, you can search up the ingredients there. Some recipes are from other places though… I can’t remember which ones.


	5. so, contestant. which do you choose?

“Ahh, my neck,” Hinata groans. He’s under the table squatted on his haunches, a damp rag in his hand, rubbing the underside of the booth. “How did it get under here? My toes…” He sits down instead.

“He could get sued for this,” Kenma mutters, wiping the leather seat. “If Uematsu-san gets respiratory problems.” He glances at the door to Akaashi’s office. Akaashi brought Kuroo in there a while ago—this time without Kuroo’s drunken _Am I in trouble?_ Kenma figures he didn’t need to ask. “He could probably get sued anyway.”

In the back, Noya is washing out the vacuum canister because of how sticky it got intaking all the honey powder. Ennoshita is on his knees next to Kenma with carpet cleaner and a brush, scrubbing. He wipes his brow with the back of his arm, sleeves rolled to his elbows. “But Kuroo is a rich man, and nobody wants to deal with him.”

“He’d probably be a disaster in court, huh?” Hinata says, quietly, like Kuroo might hear from the kitchen.

Kenma almost laughs. “How much did you say each of these booth seats cost?” He glances under the table at Hinata’s orange tuft.

Hinata peeks at him. With his face bifurcated by shadow, one eye shows an accustomed fear. “You don’t want to know.”

“New batch is going in,” Kageyama calls out.

From the guys: “ _Okayyy_.”

“On the bright side,” Ennoshita says. He sighs and sits back on his heels, smiling at Hinata. “He’ll probably give you the first taste of the honey tomorrow.” Hinata gasps. “That is, if Kenma doesn’t want it again.”

Kenma looks at Ennoshita looking at him.

They’re locked into each other enough that he doesn’t need to say the rest: _Since you’ll be here tomorrow, won’t you._

Bokuto’s voice: _Don’t quit because of_ that _guy, all right?_ And the part he didn’t say: _Quit because you don’t like the actual job._

Tendou, Lev, and Yaku always just say what they’re thinking. But apparently reading minds isn’t that difficult here.

Because this is a game.

Pause. Check inventory.

He lets the moments flash through his mind again, a slideshow of seven hours’ worth of work. A lot of it is an automatic blur—the lines he’s already memorized, the micro-scenes and brief procedures he performed at every table that feel like habit. The parts of the night that stick out the most to him are each moment with Kuroo and the time he spent serving Shimada and Takinoue. And still other, smaller moments flicker through the space: catching the champagne bottle, his ice rink routine with Hinata and their platters, the compliments from Noya and Terushima, Akaashi’s heavy gaze and his silent acknowledgement of Kenma’s aptitude, the way it feels to have a customer actually care about his name.

He opens that part of his inventory further. Inside, he sifts through each feeling surrounding the night: anger, irritation, embarrassment, exhaustion, helplessness, determination, foolishness. But the first one that shows up, the first one he comes back to in the loop that lights up begging for him to select it, is pride.

For some reason, his feet don’t hurt anymore.

He tries to think of what Tendou would be saying now, standing there by the ring with the microphone in his hand. Under the lights, Kenma can see himself and Kuroo in a deadlock, both sweating and bloodied, held in a defensive stance with their gloves raised and nobody is moving. But the announcer and audience are silent, waiting, wondering who is going to make the next move.

Staying would be senseless.

But he doesn’t play to lose.

But he doesn’t want to lose his mind either.

“It wouldn’t be very hard to,” Hinata says. Kenma blinks at him. “But you did way better than me when I first came here.”

“Tell me honestly, Kenma.”

There’s a light sheen on Ennoshita’s brow from scrubbing the carpet, and the same smile he always does on his lips. Something about how gentle his eyes look makes Kenma uneasy.

“Did you hate the work?” Ennoshita asks him.

Kenma looks back at him. _You know the answer_.

Ennoshita smiles a little more.

Kenma sighs. “I think I’m good at it, anyway. Like I said—that’s not the problem.”

Hinata crawls out from under the table and sighs too, shaking his hair. “Yeah. He can be…”

Kenma almost says, _I don’t get it_ , but he stops himself. Ennoshita isn’t going to give him an explanation. Kenma isn’t sure that he can.

_He was different then. There’s just something about working with him. I suppose I feel like I’m doing something._

Whatever made Ennoshita stay here, he can’t put it into better words.

So then, what? Stay or go?

He needs the job— _a_ job—and he needs the money. Yaku will kill him if he gets on the chat tomorrow and says he’s quit. Yaku’s exasperation; Tendou’s quiet, caring irritation; Lev’s well-intentioned pity. Even Wakatoshi would probably be disappointed in him.

It’s one-thirty a.m. and he can go home at two. He has that long to make the decision because nobody is going to do it for him.

But that’s not true. He figures, if he asked, all of them here would want him to stay.

He looks down at the wrong gloves on his hands.

Ennoshita sighs and gets to his feet, clapping Hinata on the shoulder. “Let’s start getting things put away for the night.”

“In the end,” Kenma says. The words are just coming out, falling into his palms. This pair just doesn’t fit right. “I need some place to work. I need something to do.”

Ennoshita chuckles. “Come on. This table can’t get any cleaner. Hinata’s gonna show you the settings for the washer.” He puts a hand out and Kenma takes it to stand.

In another ten minutes, the napkins are all waiting in the wash. Noya is cleaning more wine glasses than Kenma can count and carrying them carefully back to his counter in the house. Ennoshita is checking all the tablecloths, sweeping ones that need washing over his elbow with a flourish of red crêpe. In the kitchen, Bokuto ties up garbage bags to take out back, Iwaizumi cleans the countertops, Kageyama and Tsukishima wash dishes in the sinks, and Terushima sweeps the floor. Hinata takes excess food into cold storage while Kenma takes nonperishables—bags of spices, cloves of garlic and whole shallots, dry herbs—back into the pantry.

Items in his arms, he slides behind Kageyama into the hallway. It’s orchestral, the way things move here. He understands now that it isn’t just during service that each man has his exact position, but even afterwards too. They’re a small staff, tight-knit, and they do all the grunt work with the same attitude and grace with which they cook. The overwhelming feeling in Kenma’s mind is that this place belongs to them, and they’ll do what it takes to take care of it. Their group is unbreakable.

Ennoshita’s voice: _You have the capacity to do this, I promise. You’re one of us._

He lifts onto his calfskin tiptoes to place a bag of sea salt on an upper shelf.

“Just so you know,” a voice says behind him. Kenma turns with his last bag of peppercorns in his arm to see Terushima walking in, broom and dustpan in his hands. He props them against the wall and smiles. “I put a big wager in.”

Kenma holds back a sarcastic laugh. “I can’t imagine.”

Terushima chuckles. “We don’t actually bet on you. We just have an eye for potential. Especially Ennoshita.” He bows. “Terushima Yuuji, by the way. I know we haven’t really introduced ourselves. It’s nice to meet you.”

Kenma bows back, hair swaying. “Kozume Kenma. You too, Terushima-san.” He stands straight. “And thank you for what you said during service. It was encouraging for me.”

Terushima waves a hand. “Just Yuuji. This place isn’t too formal—we’re all friends.” He pauses, puts his hands on his hips, laughs and says, “Well, something like it.”

He shifts on his feet and the light washes over his face. His hair looks recently cut and colored, and styled with practice—still intact and clean after service save for two little pieces falling from the middle, like Noya’s but with less purpose, more casual. His chef’s jacket is off and the sleeves of his yellow T-shirt are rolled up. The angle of the lamp chisels shadows into his upper arms. His features are keen under the light.

“Oh. Sure,” Kenma says. He holds the peppercorns close to his chest. “I prefer just Kenma anyway.”

Terushima grins. “Just Kenma seems plenty enough.”

There’s a flash behind his teeth as he talks, a drop of silver catching the light. Kenma blinks. “Is your tongue pierced?”

“Oh, this?” He sticks his tongue out, displaying the silver ball, closing one eye in a punkish wink. He laughs. “I got it when I was in high school when all I did was play volleyball and drums and thought I was hot shit and gonna be in a band.”

Kenma gets the image of Terushima jumping to spike a ball and it looks appropriate in his head. He’s grinning while he’s in the air. “Bad grades?” Kenma asks with a little laugh.

“Advanced class seven, actually,” Terushima says.

Kenma blinks. “Oh. Sorry, I didn’t mean to…”

Terushima grins it away, waving a hand again. “No big deal. I’ve got the hair and the piercing, I get it. And I guess I’ve just never taken it out since then.” He shrugs a shoulder. “It’s still pretty cool, I think. When I’m bored at home I start clicking beats against my teeth, which is a big no-no, but whatever.”

“How old are you?” When Terushima lifts a brow at him, still smiling, Kenma shakes his head. “Sorry, that came out wrong.”

“Twenty-five.” Terushima tilts his chin at him. “You?”

Another one. “Twenty-two.”

Terushima nods. “Sounds about right.”

Kenma sighs, turning and placing the bag on one of the shelves. “You’re really accomplished for your age.”

Behind him, Terushima says in a smooth, falling voice, “Nah. I’m just a lunatic.”

Kenma turns back around and looks at him. He’s standing there angled toward Kenma, this easy smile on. Kenma gets the sudden thought that if Terushima were Kuroo, he’d feel cornered in this room right now. But Terushima is easygoing and regular, and his gaze doesn’t feel like claws on Kenma’s body. Kenma takes stock of himself and realizes his heart rate isn’t even up.

“What’s your degree in?” Terushima asks him.

It makes Kenma smile a bit in embarrassment. “That obvious?”

The chuckle Terushima does is mellow, nonchalant, like his voice. “You seem like a good guy. Educated.”

“Literature,” Kenma admits, brushing a piece of his hair back. He flashes to Kuroo’s hand at his cheek but pushes it away.

Terushima whistles. “Massive.”

“Very me,” Kenma mutters accidentally.

Terushima laughs again, a real one this time—chesty and open with his chin tilted up and that silver glint. “Nah, I mean it, though. I think that’s great. Culinary school was cool, but it’s still not the same as like, a university degree, you know? I’d say we’re both doing all right.”

It’s both unfortunate and annoying how good the people here seem to be. Everyone but Kuroo.

Kenma smiles again. “Yeah.”

“I was sixteen, actually.” Terushima sticks his tongue out again—gently, lips closed—and points. “At the time, it was the sickest idea I’d ever had. I was gonna live forever and do whatever I wanted.” He sighs and puts the hand back on his hip. “Then I decided to work here.”

His tone isn’t obvious and Kenma wonders what he means by it. Should he ask Terushima the same thing he asked Ennoshita before? Would Terushima have a different answer—or an answer at all?

_Why did you stay? Help me make this choice._

But he’s stuck just looking at him and all he says is, “Oh.”

“Hey, listen.” Terushima straightens up, runs a hand over his hair and draws in a breath. “None of us are gonna blame you for dipping out.”

Now Kenma’s heart rate picks up. He looks at the floor, nods a little.

“We’ll probably be a little jealous if you do,” Terushima says. Kenma looks back up at him, and he smiles halfway. “I know I will.”

He’s at a loss for what to say. He doesn’t even know what to think. This night will split him in two between a good job with good people, and Kuroo. “I probably…” He can’t think of anything else.

“Whatever’s best for your sanity, am I right?” Terushima says.

Kenma listens to his chuckle, watches him turn back for the doorway.

“But either way.” Terushima does a last smile. “It was cool to meet you, Kenma. Sick hair, by the way.” He goes back out to the kitchen, calling for Bokuto.

Kenma stands there as he disappears.

Then he closes his eyes and thinks.

In his head, he goes to the edge of the ring and leans against the ropes, trying to catch his breath. _Tendou. What do I do?_ Ennoshita is supposed to be his coach, but he’s too biased. The announcer is somebody else now, swapped like in a dream, and Ennoshita is Tendou in his work blazer and loose tie, leaning on the post, playing idly with a turnbuckle while he looks at Kenma with his sleepy lidded eyes. _What are you thinking?_ Tendou asks him. Kenma sighs and wipes sweat off his brow. _I don’t know. How long do you think I can make it?_ Tendou leans down and smiles at him. His eyes widen, pinpoint pupils. _How hard are you willing to fight?_

He opens his eyes.

Outside the doorway, Kuroo walks past down the hall.

Kenma’s feet move before he thinks. He steps through the threshold and turns to face Kuroo’s back. “Chef.”

Kuroo pauses. He turns partially, half-smile. “Kozume.”

The spot on his cheek tingles again. “Why the customer?”

Kuroo’s brow raises. “What?”

Kenma forces himself to take a step forward—further from the kitchen, closer to Kuroo. Kuroo regards him from his extra eighteen centimeters, looking downward with his eyes. Kenma holds his ground. “Why get mad at the customer and not Iwaizumi?”

The smile flattens out, and the single eye sharpens. Kuroo says nothing for a moment. Kenma stands waiting, ready to dodge if he needs to but not ready to give up. Kuroo turns to face him fully and says, “If you pitted any one of those rich pigs against any of my chefs in the matter of cuisine, mine would have them on their back in an instant.”

It clicks together. _My chefs_.

_Kuroo chose based on caliber and quality. He’s never had any other staff there than the men you see now._

A tight-knit group, a well-oiled machine, a professional orchestra with a renowned conductor. A three Michelin Star kitchen.

Questioning the talents of any of his chosen chefs is questioning Kuroo’s judgement. He designed his kitchen by hand, pulling each of his men from other acclaimed executives and upstanding restaurants that, for some reason, they all left to be with him.

Kuroo actually cares.

In the ring, Kenma stands back from the ropes and looks up into the lights.

“Do you understand that?” Kuroo asks him.

_Fully_. “Yes, Chef.”

Kuroo’s voice is solid and flat. “I have five distinguished, cultivated men on my brigade. I chose them for a reason.” He lifts his jaw just that much. “Hajime knows how to cook a salmon.”

Despite the heat of the kitchen, Kenma’s arms prickle with a chill under his sleeves. “Yes, Chef.”

“Pawing him around again?”

Bokuto’s hand lands on Kenma’s shoulder and he looks up. Fortunately, Bokuto isn’t holding his knife.

“ _Chef?_ ” Bokuto emphasizes.

Kuroo looks at Bokuto, looks at Kenma again. His chin lowers, and his gaze slides away as he starts to turn back around. “Good work tonight, Kozume.”

Something pulses through Kenma’s chest. He doesn’t say it loud enough for Kuroo to hear as he disappears around the corner of the hall, but it comes out all the same: “Thank you, Chef.”

In the brief pause, he listens to the sounds of the guys in the kitchen, Noya and Hinata laughing at something in the house. Bokuto’s hand is still heavy on his shoulder. When Kenma looks up at him again, Bokuto is staring down the empty hallway. His other hand comes up to rub his face and he says, “Oh, boy.”

“I’m starting to understand. A little bit,” Kenma says.

Bokuto sighs, shaking his head at the hall. “Not what I expected, kid. Not at all.”

Kenma doesn’t reply.

Bokuto shrugs a shoulder and pats Kenma’s. “Hey, Akaashi’s looking for you in his office, and then you’re welcome to head out. Congrats on making it through night one.” He grins.

Night one. He doesn’t have the energy left to think about it. “Okay. Thanks.”

“You look exhausted. You’ll get used to being on your feet for so long.”

_That’s not what was tiring, Bokuto-san. You know that_. “Thanks.”

Bokuto laughs. “Head in there. Akaashi should never be kept waiting.”

Bokuto gives him a little push, and Kenma abides.

Through the kitchen and the house, Akaashi’s door waits open, so he steps in and bows. “Excuse me.”

“Push it ajar, please.”

Kenma bows again and closes the door to a crack. He turns and looks at the office—smaller than he expected, and very plain. Another platinum clock on the wall reads one forty-eight.

He looks back at Akaashi, going behind a desk and sliding forward what looks like a checkbook. He picks up a pen.

“This is for the night.” He flips open the cover to a clean sheet.

Kenma watches him write, speechless, his face warm. The sound of the pen seems loud, and the only thought that appears in Kenma’s head is _You’ve done this a million times before._ The carbon copy from the last person in Kenma’s place might still be in there.

Akaashi tears the check out, goes into a drawer, pulls out an envelope, and slips the check inside. “Tax free, no questions asked.” He peels the seal open and presses the envelope closed.

“With all due respect, Akaashi-san.” The honorific comes out despite what Bokuto told him when he first got here. Akaashi is too intimidating, and Kenma is already being disrespectful as it is. Akaashi looks at him and Kenma puts his hands behind his back. “You’re not even going to ask me if I’m going to stay or not?”

“It’s not up to me.”

It’s a strange thing to say, Kenma thinks, because Akaashi is the one who called him to say he was hired. Akaashi is the manager, and he could tell Kenma not to come back if he wanted to. He wonders then if it’s actually Kuroo’s decision, and then realizes that ultimately, it’s neither of them.

Akaashi holds the envelope out over the desk. “Though I think,” he says, “that you did exceptional work tonight.” His hand falls just the slightest, and his razorblade features suddenly look softer and elegant. Beyond the door, in the kitchen, Bokuto’s laugh rings out. “And I would be glad to see you here at the same time tomorrow.”

Kenma stares at the envelope.

…

He can see their light on as he makes his way up the stairs to their floor. After the half-hour, deserted walk home with the trains not running, his feet are starting to hurt again. He actually considered carrying his shoes and going along in his socks, but the idea brought with it Kuroo saying _It’s nice to have you at my place for the night_ , and he changed his mind. Kicking these calfskin shoes off by the heels will be the highlight of the evening.

_Liar. What would Shimada say?_

He can’t even tell whose voice it is anymore.

As he was leaving, he bid the kitchen and then Ennoshita and Hinata goodbye, and Ennoshita just said, “I understand how you’re feeling, but—” and Kenma blocked out the rest of the sentence, thanked him for his help, and only felt a little bit bad about it.

Noya was already standing there when he pushed out from door number two, leaning back against the wall with his button-up over one shoulder and his arms bare, a lollipop in his mouth. He pulled it out and grinned at Kenma. “The lynx,” he said, kicking off from the wall. “Headed out for the night?”

_Does that make Kuroo the tiger?_ “Yeah.”

“Cool. See you tomorrow then.” He winked.

Kenma sighed out through his nose. “Very funny.”

Noya gave him a smile that betrayed his intelligence. He hummed and spun the lollipop in his fingertips. “Our official uniform will look good on you.” Before Kenma could muster up a response, headlights curved around the building and into the parking lot—an old Subaru SUV. “Nice, my ride’s here. This headband’s killing me.” He hopped down onto the asphalt and started backwards toward the car, saluting Kenma widely. “Later! And don’t be late!”

A master sommelier, right?

Kenma caught a glimpse of a guy twice Noya’s size and half-bunned before Noya jumped in and shut the door. Then the window rolled down and he shoved his head back out, lollipop stick hanging from the side of his mouth. “Oi, Asahi wants to know if you want a ride home. You live around here?”

By car on empty streets, it would have been ten minutes to get back here, but Kenma couldn’t forfeit his pride like that. He has an idea that if he’d gotten in that car with Noya, the decision about tomorrow would have been made for him.

He clutches the envelope in his left hand as he opens their apartment door with his right.

Tendou is on his bed in shorts and a hoodie, hair down in his face, leaning back against the wall with his phone in his hands. Kenma raises a greeting hand and Tendou perks up, eyes brightening. “Night one?”

Kenma hums, shuts the door and kicks off his shoes. He wiggles his toes on the floor.

“Good timing, by the way,” Tendou says. He holds his phone up. “I was just looking up your executive chef? Hot as hell—does he look like that in person?”

Kenma averts his eyes from the picture of Kuroo he can barely see from here. He takes in a long, long breath as he pads toward the kitchen and puts the envelope down on the counter. “I don’t want to talk about Kuroo.”

“Kuroo?” Tendou’s eyes follow him. “Are you on a no-title basis already?”

A long, long sigh. “Tendou, it’s really not my night.”

Tendou closes his mouth. He gets up off the bed and comes over to him. “Oh no. Did it not go well?”

There it is—the pity.

Kenma squeezes his eyes shut. “It went fine.”

_It went better than fine. You’re good at the job—exceptional, if Akaashi’s word means anything, and it might mean more than anyone’s. Can you even afford to quit? How long is Tendou going to put up with you paying your rent and for nothing else? He teaches chemistry. He knows how to make poison._

He looks at the check he just put down. He doesn’t know its value. He didn’t bother to open it. “The chef is just…”

“A dick?” Tendou leans on the counter across from him.

“Yeah. Thinks with it.”

Tendou’s brows go up. “Ohh, I see. I mean, upscale restaurant; powerful, good-looking chef. Makes sense.”

Kenma gives him a look. “That’s…sort of messed up.” He sighs again, running his hands through his hair.

“Was it that bad?” Tendou asks.

_I guess that depends on how you see it._

Kenma stands there looking at the air. “He touched my hair and gave me once-overs. And he’s an ass to customers if…” _If they question his chefs with no valid reason_. He clicks his tongue.

“I mean…” Tendou puts a palm up. “Is he still hot?”

Kenma looks at him. “I’m going to bed.”

“Sorry, sorry. That was bad of me. Well, what about everyone else? Nice people?”

Kenma thinks of Ennoshita, all of his help and advice and information, and even though he’s too strong in his opinion, he’s at least honest, and he’s on Kenma’s side in some way. Hinata and his innocent smile, the way he lights up over the prospect of honey but still notices a lot more than he lets on. Terushima’s casual, calming personality, easy confidence, and assurance that Kenma is doing the right thing, whatever it is. Noya’s presence and lighthearted disposition, Bokuto’s hearty kindness, Kageyama’s firm but delicate nature, Tsukishima’s paradoxical detached yet all-in attitude, Iwaizumi’s stoic professionalism. Akaashi’s gentle praise and sincerity, and his hope for tomorrow.

“Yeah,” he says. “Nice people.”

“And the job? Do you totally blow?”

Kenma laughs, no smile, a puff of air. “My manager doesn’t seem to think so. Or anyone else.”

_Good work tonight, Kozume._

Tendou tilts his head. “Well, I mean, hey. It’s up to what you want to do. I’m proud that you got there and did tonight, so it comes down to whatever is best for you.”

A flash of Terushima in the pantry, the glint of his piercing: _Whatever’s best for your sanity, am I right?_

_Yuuji, how did you know when you were going to become a lunatic? Did it feel like this?_

Tendou stretches a long arm up and says, “I personally wouldn’t mind someone that hot copping a feel.” He puts the hand out in a shrug. “Kinda flattering.” He closes his eyes and both fists. “God, when can Waka be done being a country boy?”

Against his will, Kenma snorts. “I thought I had decided twenty minutes ago that I was quitting.”

“And did you change your mind since then?” Tendou lifts one brow at him.

Kenma pauses, and chooses not to answer. “I’m tired. I’m really tired and those shoes hurt.”

“You want a massage?”

“Stay away from my feet.”

Tendou puts his hands up in surrender, then snaps his fingers. “Let me get you some chamomile so you’ll sleep like a baby. I know it’s your favorite.” He glides over to a cabinet. “And I’ll get your clothes clean by morning, just in case. My favor.”

Kenma watches him go through his motions: placing his favorite nanbu tekki kettle on a burner, dropping a spoonful of chamomile buds into an infuser, finding Kenma’s favorite red mug, humming a nocturne as he moves. Tendou is one of the strangest people Kenma has ever met, but he wouldn’t trade him for anyone else with a gun to his head. He landed a golden roommate and a golden friend with him. The day Tendou finally realizes that all he wants is to join in on being a country boy and moves away to live with Wakatoshi in his family mansion is the day Kenma gives up all hope.

What hope he has left after tonight.

In no time, Kenma is in a T-shirt and pajama pants and Tendou has the tea steeping in the kettle. He shuts off the burner and turns back to the counter. He gestures at the envelope. “What is this, anyway? A check?”

Kenma nods. “Mm. The manager gave me today’s payment since I think he also assumes I’m not coming back.”

Tendou snorts and echoes, “Also assumes.” He places Kenma’s mug in front of him, picks up the kettle by the handle and holds down the lid, and pours Kenma his tea, warm and comforting when Kenma wraps his hands around it. “Good?”

Kenma takes a slow breath of the steam. “As always. Thank you.”

Tendou trades the kettle for the envelope. “Well, let’s check it out.” Kenma doesn’t care enough to stop him as he rips it open and takes out the check. His eyes get almost as big as they do when they’ve been playing one mission for three hours straight and are about to finish things, deal the final blows to the enemy. “This isn’t for the week, is it?”

Kenma lowers his mug from his lips. “No. Why? What.”

Tendou holds the check out across the counter. “Yaku was right. You’re crazy if you don’t wake up on time tomorrow. I hope I didn’t make the tea too strong—I know you’re sensitive to it.”

Kenma puts the mug down. “Tendou.” He takes the slip of paper.

The math in his head tells him that he made nearly three thousand yen an hour.

Bokuto’s voice: _And don’t throw the check away, okay?_

He says, “What…”

Tendou points to Kenma’s bed.

As he’s sitting there finishing his tea, glancing between the check on his bedside table and Tendou disinfecting the countertop, he realizes that whether he wakes up or not, he’s a lunatic either way.

* * *

**HC: Before coming to Tiger’s Eye, Noya worked in Hirugami Sachirou’s restaurant for two years. He passed the master sommelier diploma examination on his first try during a three-day trip to New Orleans, Louisiana, during his fifth month working for Hirugami. The week following his return, the restaurant began preparations for a remodeling. The interior designer’s name was Azumane Asahi.**


	6. to wake up and start over again.

“All right, guys. I’m heading out,” Ennoshita sighs.

Kei nods to him. “Thanks for your help with the kitchen.”

“Thought I’d make up for when Kageyama had to restart almost his entire batch of honey,” Ennoshita says, smiling at Kuroo. Kuroo deadpans back. “The kids are gone already?” Ennoshita asks.

“And Hajime and Yuuji left a few ago,” Bokuto says, coming out from the pantry. “Get out of here, man. I’m about to beg Akaashi to drive me home again and I don’t want anyone to hear it.” He puts his palms together.

“Buy a car, Bokuto,” Kuroo shoots at him. “I think you make enough money.”

Bokuto says, “Sorry, did you hear something?” and walks past them all to Akaashi’s office.

There is a stain on Kuroo’s jacket—huckleberry, from when he helped Terushima around nine-thirty at full house. That, and the honey dusted in patches, sticking to the buttons. Kei wonders if Kuroo will remember to put it in the washer when he gets home.

Ennoshita claps Kuroo on the shoulder. “Go easy on Kenma tomorrow, will you?”

When was the last time Kuroo touched his washer?

“You’re getting too lax, Chikara,” Kuroo retorts, tilting his chin up the same way he always does.

Ennoshita waves his hand over his shoulder as he heads for the back door. “The shift is over, Tetsurou. You’re not my boss again until twelve hours from now.” He pauses and says, “And remember—I’m the first person you ever hired.”

Kei crosses an arm over his chest, adjusts his glasses with the other hand.

Ennoshita gives a final wave and leaves.

Kuroo and Kei stand alone in the kitchen.

After a moment, Kei says, “Do you want to talk about Hajime’s table?”

Kuroo sighs, craning his neck to the side. “Not particularly.”

“You know that outbursts like that are what’s keeping some people from coming in,” Kei says. When Kuroo starts to roll his eyes, Kei angles toward him. “We’re even losing regulars, Tetsurou. We haven’t seen Washijou-sensei in months. You remember the review from—”

“Of course I remember,” Kuroo growls. He rubs his forehead under his bangs. “Do you think I don’t know any of that?”

“I don’t see you changing it.”

“Well, what do you expect from someone who couldn’t get his first star until two months after that prissy uptown—”

“Stop blaming your behavior on that,” Kei mutters. “It’s not Oikawa you’re so tormented over.”

Kuroo lands a look on him. “Excuse me?”

“The longer you wallow in self-pity, the longer—”

“You’re getting this close, Kei.”

“To what?” He looks Kuroo in the eye. “To what?”

Kuroo doesn’t respond. He crosses his arms and leans back against the counter. Kei does too. “I can’t stand some of the people who come here,” Kuroo says. “If somebody were to question your cooking…”

Kei just sighs, looking across the kitchen at nothing. “And don’t treat Kozume like that.”

Kuroo’s brow lifts. When he looks over at Kei, Kei looks at the floor. “You’ve never said anything before.” His lips curl up on one side. “Are you jealous?”

Kei inclines his face away as Kuroo dips his head down to look at it. “Just take a step off the high horse you ride constantly.”

Kuroo laughs. “If you were anyone else, Kei.”

Kei shakes his head.

In the pause, Akaashi’s office door opens with Bokuto saying a quiet, “Thank you, Keiji.”

A light switch flicks off and Akaashi’s voice floats over to them, nearing. “We’re leaving.”

Kei keeps his gaze on the floor as Kuroo turns to watch them come over. “Already?”

“It’s past three, man,” Bokuto yawns. “And for some reason, I have to come back here later today.”

“Don’t put it like that,” Akaashi says, letting his eyes close. He waves a hand.

Kei follows with Kuroo, picking up their things on the way out. Akaashi locks Tiger’s Eye behind them, and he and Bokuto say goodbye, get into Akaashi’s Lexus, and drive away.

It’s a cool, dry night; a gentle breeze in Kei’s hair. He considers parking further away from his complex tonight and walking in to enjoy something. Maybe driving around alone for a while first while the streets are empty. His car could use a run from being left here for the past two days.

He watches Kuroo take his chef’s jacket off. He’ll have to treat the stain first.

“Are you coming back with me or what?” Kuroo asks him. He hooks the jacket over his elbow, keys in his hand jingling quietly.

Kei takes a deep breath. “What do you think of him anyway?”

Kuroo doesn’t look at him. “Who? Kozume?”

“Hm.”

Eventually, Kuroo shrugs. “He seems good at the job.”

_That’s not what I meant. Do you know that?_ “He’s very capable.”

“Uh-huh.”

_I heard what you said to him in the hall._ “Does he fit what you wanted?”

Kuroo raises that eyebrow at him—the only one Kei has been able to see for ten months now. “What I wanted?”

Kei shakes his head at the sidewalk.

Kuroo chuckles. “Come on, Kei. You’re asking too many questions tonight.” He brings a finger under Kei’s chin, lifting it. “Yes or no?”

Kei turns his face away again. “Yeah. I guess so.”

Kuroo smiles. “So easy.”

Kei clicks his tongue. “You’re a real ass.”

Before Kei can move, Kuroo reaches around behind him and has a handful. “Hey, you keep seeing me.”

The headlights on Kuroo’s Acura flash, glinting in Kei’s glasses. He places his hand on Kuroo’s arm, looking at his T-shirt. The wrinkles are still there from when they woke up late this morning and Kuroo pulled this shirt from a pile of clean ones he never folded after Kei took them out of the laundry. From service, it must be musty now—Kuroo’s exact smell, neither good nor bad. He murmurs, “And for what, Tetsu.”

The arm slips out of Kei’s grasp. Kuroo turns away. “What did I say about calling me that.”

Kei sighs. Nods once. He starts toward Kuroo’s car, giving his own a useless glance. “Let’s go.” Kuroo’s footsteps aren’t following, so he stops in the lot and turns to look at him. “Let’s go. I need to wash your jacket. And you need a shower.”

Kuroo’s form is partially lit by a streetlamp, cast in orange with the black backdrop of the restaurant. His hair is a cutout, negative space leaving him only partially there. The one eye Kei can see glows. He smiles at Kei, calls back, “Sounds like a great night,” and takes a step off the sidewalk.

* * *

**HC: Kei has only had one relationship in his life prior to now. They parted ways when he moved to go into culinary school, and they don’t keep in touch. He felt he might try to date again once he graduated his program, but a few months into working for Ukai Keishin, an article came out in _The Japan Times_ about Executive Chef Sugawara Koushi and his sous of two years. After seeing the photo of the two of them, of the sous chef on the right, Kei knew he would wait.**


	7. violin concerto no. 5 in E flat major

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations for all phrases in another language throughout this story (unless in a chapter title) will either be clarified within text by characters, as in chapter 1, or will be in the notes at the end, as with this chapter.

Monday afternoon, with the sun on his shoulders as he leaves the bank, it feels like last night was all a fever dream.

Tendou’s chamomile got him to sleep, and somehow his body woke him back up ten minutes before his alarm. Hanging on the door to the bathroom were his work clothes, washed and ironed soundlessly while he slept because, despite his personality or maybe because of it, Tendou moves silently in the night. He has never once woken Kenma up as he got ready and left for work.

When Kenma padded over to his clothes, a note held to the door with a strip of electrical tape said, _Deposit it on your way. And eat something._ The check was tucked halfway into the pocket of his pants.

He goes through his inventory in his head while he takes the sidewalk toward Tiger’s Eye. Every time he gets to one of the moments with Kuroo—the _in my hands_ or the hair or the wasted honey—he tosses it away in favor of the good parts, the things that made last night worthwhile. The things he’s using to delude himself into believing that going back right now isn’t the worst decision he could make for his sanity.

That, and the fact that he’ll be making more than twice what Tendou does in a year. He’s never deposited that amount of money at once in his life. Should he stay, he can stop worrying about rent, or his phone bill, or the price of a train to Yokohama to visit Lev and Yaku. He can finally repay his prodigal, selfless roommate.

Black exterior, one-way-tinted front doors, insignia above in the shape of a predatory feline eye. Around the side, door number two comes into view.

He repeats it to himself one more time: _No more pity. No more. Just endure it._

He’s going to do this whether he likes it or not. If Hinata and Noya could, then so can he.

He goes to the door, puts his hand on the handle, sighs. Pulls it open and walks into the hallway at 2:27 on a Monday afternoon in uncomfortable shoes for an eleven-and-a-half-hour shift.

The door shuts behind him as he relinquishes his phone and keys into the mahogany cubby. In the box next to his, there’s a set of keys with two charms: a tiny white Maneki Neko, and a yellow omamori for happiness. He waves back at the cat.

Terushima’s upper body leans out from the kitchen. He smiles and calls out, “Kenma’s here.”

Kenma waves to him too, and Terushima gives him a discreet salute.

“Noya, go grab it,” Ennoshita’s voice says. He’s rounding the open wall and coming down the hallway. Behind him, Noya makes a grand walk toward the back rooms. “Made it,” Ennoshita says.

Kenma offers him no expression.

Ennoshita chuckles like always. “And before Chef, once again. We’ve got something for you if you want to come to the room.” He tilts his head.

Kenma sighs, resigning himself. “How can I refuse.”

“That’s the spirit.” Ennoshita pats him on the shoulder, and Kenma follows him to the storage room. In the kitchen as they pass, Terushima ( _Do I call him_ _Yuuji?_ ), Kageyama, Bokuto, and Iwaizumi are all early and already beginning prep. No Kuroo, no Tsukishima.

“Wait for me!” Hinata hustles around from the house to follow and lands by Kenma’s side. He beams up at him. “You’re back.”

Kenma works to keep the smile off his face, but Hinata’s is too contagious. “Yeah. I guess so.”

“I think you’re being inducted today.”

“Huh?”

When they step into the storage room, Ennoshita displays his arm out. Noya is standing there hidden behind an outfit he’s holding up on a hanger—almost the exact same one Kenma is wearing but better. The one the three established employees have on. Noya moves it to the side, revealing his other hand holding a pair of leather shoes and the massive grin on his face. His hair is done up today.

“Get it on, dude.”

In the bathroom mirror, the outfit really is the photoshoot version of his own. He’s sharper, tailored, with a stiffer collar and darker buttons and shoulder seams that angle at the ideal point, and pants that sit at the right spot on his waist and hug more appropriately. He glances down at the shoes, a gentle shine in the light, and they’re somehow a perfect fit. Everything is.

He sighs, plucks a half-blond hair from his shoulder and drops it into the wastebasket. He picks up his old clothes that he just bought two days ago, that Tendou washed and ironed this morning for no reason, flicks the light off, and opens the door.

Kageyama is standing there against the wall.

“Sorry for the wait,” Kenma says, bowing his head a little.

Kageyama shakes his head. “They’re fast.” He nods to the outfit.

Kenma takes a breath. “Tell me about it.”

“Not usually this fast,” Kageyama says. He pushes off the wall and passes Kenma for the restroom. “Excuse me.”

The door closes. Kenma brushes his hair behind his ear and goes back to the room where the servers and sommelier await his grand entrance.

He walks in and stands there. “Don’t think this means anything.”

Noya snorts. “Whatever you say.”

“Whoa.” Hinata’s eyes get big. “Perfect fit.”

“How did you do this overnight?” Kenma sends the question straight to Ennoshita, the mastermind of all of this.

Ennoshita tilts his head, looking Kenma up and down. “Well.” He puts his hand on his hip. “They’re always about your size.”

Right. They probably have two or three of this approximate size at the ready at all times.

“So you had this yesterday?” he says.

“It’s like a test,” Hinata admits, rubbing the back of his head. “Akaashi wants to see how well you follow the rules with the uniform guidelines in the application.”

“And to see your fashion sense,” Noya says. “I was right—you do look good in it. Way better than those calfskin shoes you had. We go shiny in this restaurant.”

Kenma looks at the old pair of shoes in his arm. “My roommate told me no patent.”

“These aren’t patent.” Noya kicks a foot out, displaying the shoes all of them are wearing now. “This is fine Italian shell cordovan. Cut from a horse’s ass. It’s the most expensive type of leather in existence.”

For some reason, Kenma isn’t surprised.

“And the final piece.” Ennoshita reaches to his back pocket and pulls out a pair of black cloth gloves. He holds them out and says in a gentle voice, “I figured you’d want these again today.”

“Ennoshita-san hand washed them,” Hinata says.

Kenma puts his clothes down on the counter and takes the gloves. He holds them in his hands—soft, like they’ve been worn-in for years already, and yet good as new. Not a speck of honey or thyme.

“They’re actually a silk blend,” Ennoshita says, “so we don’t put them in the washer. Cut and sewn in half-sizes, but by hand, so each pair is unique from the others.” He smiles a little. “I guess that pair alone is yours.”

Kenma can’t tell if the feeling he gets in his chest suddenly is sentiment or guilt. “Thank you.” He looks up. “All of you.”

“It’ll only be rough for a while,” Noya says. He passes Kenma on his way out with a smile and a nudge to his arm. “Don’t hang up your gloves just yet. I’m doing glasses, guys.” He waves a hand over his shoulder and walks out.

“Grab the vacuum for me, Hinata?” Ennoshita says. Hinata nods and goes to get it. Ennoshita looks at Kenma with the same smile. “Once Tsukishima gets here, you’ll be going with him for a while.”

With Tsukishima? Kenma recalls the data he has has on him so far: sous chef and _aboyeur_ , arrives late with Kuroo sometimes, intimidating. He says, “Okay.”

Hinata hauls the vacuum from its corner and wheels it out to the house.

“So, let’s get moving,” Ennoshita says. He goes to a cabinet and pulls out two containers of disinfectant wipes. “What are we thinking today? Lemon or lemon?”

When Kuroo’s entrance is ordinary and uneventful at 3:02, walking in with his jacket on and unbuttoned and the same messy hair, Tsukishima just behind him, Kenma feels a wash of relief. Maybe today will be more like what Ennoshita had hoped for last night. The kind of regular, average service that has less of a chance of scaring Kenma away. Maybe Kuroo will just leave him and the customers alone.

The gentle smell of honey from Kageyama’s extra batch dehydrating in the oven reminds him that Kuroo, at the very least, needs to be watched out for.

_Just endure it._

“At least _that’s_ okay today,” Ennoshita mutters next to him, eyeing Kuroo.

Kenma hums.

“Tsukishima,” Ennoshita calls out. The sous chef looks over at him, pushing up his glasses. “Today?”

“Sure.” He sounds ecstatic.

“Art appreciation class.” Ennoshita waves Kenma towards the kitchen. “Fifteen minutes tops before you have to let Hinata race you to see who can clean more tables the fastest.”

Kenma looks towards Tsukishima, and Tsukishima calls him over with a tilt of his head. Kenma goes.

“I’ll be showing you around the kitchen,” Tsukishima says when Kenma reaches him.

“Just for knowledge purposes?”

Tsukishima nods.

“Do all your new servers get this treatment on day two?” Kenma asks.

It sounds like Tsukishima mutters, “None of them have.” Kenma is about to say something, but Tsukishima side-eyes him. Kenma shuts his mouth. Tsukishima just says, “It appears that Tiger’s Eye likes you.”

Kenma shifts on his feet. “What do you mean?”

“I assume you’ve memorized the menu?”

Kenma looks up at him. His height combines with his voice, his expression, and his demeanor and creates a daunting figure. Standing above Kenma, his posture is flawless and the jacket makes him look militaristic and esteemed. Tsukishima doesn’t have the time when he’s here for anything but his job.

Kenma says, “Yes, Chef.”

“Before service, during the whole of prep, you can see each element of each dish—more than a hundred ingredients in total—being prepared by our chefs.” Tsukishima takes the first step. “Follow me.”

Kenma latches metaphorically and falls into step around the kitchen behind Tsukishima’s frame.

“Chef Kuroo created Tiger’s Eye to be an establishment of fine international cuisine like no other. Our ingredients are sourced from only the best; the highest quality with a price tag to match. Everything from our proteins to our salt to the vacuum sealing bags Bokuto uses to sous vide his sunchoke was chosen to produce in a methodical, regimented, and yet unconventional and contemporary way the chosen dishes developed from the combination of Chef Kuroo’s experience in school, as a chef, and as a man.”

As they walk, Kenma gets a closer look at the kitchen itself—the countertops that must have cost millions, kitchen tools he doesn’t even know the names of, ingredients the chefs have out that don’t get listed on the menu but create the exact flavors of the food they create. The chefs work in earnest, with an intense focus on even the simplest ingredient in front of them, and still the mood in the kitchen is light enough, simple enough. The feeling that this is the work they do every day, ingrained routines for them like the servers’ routines have become for Kenma, but requiring a lot more skill and vastly more impressive. It’s the warmup of the orchestra.

“But what makes Tiger’s Eye different,” Tsukishima says. They stop at the back of the kitchen and look out at everything—the chefs, the house, past the glass doors into midday Tokyo. “Is in the people we choose to have here.” Tsukishima’s eyes flick sideways and he says, “Excuse us, Chef.”

Kenma steps to the side as Kuroo walks between the two of them from the hall. “Touring already?” He gives Tsukishima his crooked smile.

Tsukishima puts his hands behind his back. “By Ennoshita’s request, Chef.”

“Hm? What does he know that I don’t?” Kuroo turns the smile on Kenma. “Welcome back, Kozume. I expect work of the same caliber tonight.”

Kenma takes a breath and says, “Of course, Chef.”

“And hey.” Kuroo turns a little. “About last night. Like I said, things can get a little intense.”

Tsukishima’s eyes flick from Kuroo to Kenma to the floor.

Kenma looks over to see Bokuto glancing furtively at them. When their eyes meet, Bokuto turns back to his work.

Kenma starts to capitulate, to defer and say _It’s not a problem, Chef_. But he isn’t going to lie. The tingling he feels on his cheekbone is just his imagination. “Of course, Chef,” he says again.

Kuroo chuckles and walks on. “As you were, you two.”

Tsukishima closes his eyes and adjusts his glasses again. “I’m sure Ennoshita explained the house members, Akaashi, and our remote employees to you.”

Kenma pulls his eyes away from Kuroo’s back and looks at Tsukishima again. “He did.”

“Then, regarding our chefs.” He nods in Kuroo’s direction. “As our executive, you won’t see Chef Kuroo cooking as often as the rest of us, but that doesn’t negate the years of experience he holds, and the ability it took for him to gain the position he commands. You can imagine what it takes, the expertise it requires to open a restaurant and be awarded three stars within three years. Of all of us,” Tsukishima says in his level tone, “it is my opinion that Chef Kuroo is the finest chef both within and without this kitchen.”

Kenma looks through the lenses of Tsukishima’s glasses into his keen golden eyes. His mind flashes to multiple moments.

_Get a hold of yourself, Tetsurou._

Kuroo playing with the frames of his glasses.

Kenma’s own voice: _What’s up with that? Them._ And Ennoshita’s response: _That’s something none of us know the answer to._

Kenma thinks he has an idea.

“As the founding executive and part-owner of this restaurant, he works with Akaashi to maintain every part of the kitchen and house that have nothing to do with cooking itself,” Tsukishima explains. “He works with inventory and orders, budget and administration.” He pauses and says, “But—” then seems to change it. “Since the third star, he has,” he blinks, “left many tasks in Akaashi’s capable hands.”

Kenma has an idea about that, too. But why is it so?

Tsukishima continues. “Maintaining the standard of cuisine is where Kuroo truly excels. As a chef, he focuses on flavor concentration, the gravity of every plate that leaves the pass. Yachi does her research and Akaashi provides the overviews, but you never know fully who somebody is, who they know, who is going to say what to whom. Professional critics are only half the battle—it doesn’t matter how many stars you have if nobody ever chooses to come to your restaurant in the first place. Every bite for every customer needs to be precise and impactful.” Tsukishima’s gaze stays on Kuroo’s profile as he rounds the open wall and goes to Akaashi’s office. “The Chef pushes the five of us to reach that summit.”

Kenma remembers Kuroo’s speech before service last night, a specific line he said: _Together, we move at peak efficiency, each plate to impossible standards._

_My chefs._

Kuroo, who has their backs even against the ever-important customer. And each of them, from Akaashi to Ennoshita to Tsukishima, have his back in return.

But _why_?

He wants to ask, to turn to Tsukishima and expose the paradox within this restaurant, but Bokuto speaks before him.

“You’ve always been so saccharine, Tsukishima.” He turns to them holding his knife casually in the air by his head, a grin on his face. “I’m misty-eyed.”

Tsukishima pushes his glasses up with a glint.

“Are you first then, Bokuto?” Terushima calls. He looks at Kenma and winks.

Bokuto drops the knife tip dangerously close to his cheek, pointing at himself. Another two millimeters and no doubt he would have cut himself open. “Who, me? It’s about time we pull up my character profile for this kid.” He laughs. “Considering I’m the one who met him first. Come on over.” He invites them to his station with a tilt of his head.

“What is it?” Kenma asks, looking down at Bokuto’s work—some kind of white root vegetable he’s peeled and is finely mincing into a pile.

“Horseradish,” Bokuto says. “Start counting.”

“What?”

In maybe ten seconds’ time, Bokuto hacks off a chunk of the root and minces it into tiny uniform blocks, each hardly bigger than a few strawberry seeds. He flicks one onto the tip of his knife and holds it up to Kenma’s face. Kenma leans back, but then squints forward.

“Time?” Bokuto asks.

“Seven seconds,” Iwaizumi says without turning from his station across the kitchen.

Bokuto grins again. “Could be faster.”

“You brag,” Terushima says. Kenma notices the piercing again.

“The finer the knife cut, the more distributed the flavor,” Bokuto says, brandishing the blade. “And the stronger the taste. The horseradish for…what dish again?” He lifts a brow at Kenma.

“Kobe,” Kenma replies.

Bokuto smiles. “Good. I mince instead of grating to keep the moisture. It’s meant to be pungent, since Yuuji makes the cream pretty weak.”

“Oh, please, it’s a _cream_ ,” Terushima says, laughing. He turns and leans back against the countertop, crossing his arms. “That’s Bokuto’s special ability. He’s had an aptitude for knives since he started, but since opening this place with Chef and Akaashi, when Chef gifted him _that_ knife, he’s a wizard with that thing no matter the dish.”

“That’s why he’s our _entremetier_ ,” Tsukishima says. “Though perhaps less glamorous, it is an extremely difficult job that requires a well-balanced, well-rounded chef with a lot of experience, and the ability to work on many things at once in a chaotic kitchen. Bokuto has a hand in every dish that isn’t a dessert, and still sometimes helps Kageyama during full house. And knife skill is essential for any chef regardless, but Bokuto is,” he adjusts his glasses again, “a cut above the rest.”

Terushima laughs aloud. “From Tsukishima.”

“You guys are gonna make me blush,” Bokuto says, clutching the knife to his chest.

Tsukishima sighs. “A hand in every dish, and that knife.”

Kenma looks more closely at it: steel, he’s sure, with a dimpled texture that increases in density as it approaches the blade’s edge, a dark wooden handle with reddish striations, a brand Kanji imprinted on the flat of the blade in black. It looks like a knife, albeit a nice one. “Is it special?” he asks.

Terushima looks quickly over at him, and in the corner of Kenma’s eye he can see Kageyama turn around with his lips parted, an intense gaze at the group of them there. Iwaizumi runs a hand through his hair.

“Is it special?” Bokuto echoes.

From the house, Kenma just barely hears Ennoshita’s voice say quietly, “Oh, Jesus. Quick, Shouyou.”

The vacuum turns on as Bokuto’s mouth pulls into a wry smile. He whips the knife up, and it glints in Kenma’s eyes. “This is a twenty-five-centimeter, thirty-two-layer, high-carbon Damascus steel chef’s knife. It was handcrafted in Seki by master artisans. The blade’s flat,” he turns the knife and the dimples glitter in the harsh light of the kitchen, “is _tsuchime_ , that beautiful hammered finish.” With a flick of his hands, he’s resituated the knife in his fingers, holding the blade like a playing card between two and the end of the handle under his opposite thumb. “The handle is treated Pakka wood, black and red striations, with an inlaid mosaic samurai crest. This knife goes for a minimum of thirty-five thousand yen, though Kuroo won’t tell me how much this specific one was.” He chuckles, smile dominant on his face under confident eyes. “There are only a few things I care most about in this world, and this knife is one of them. Without it…” Bokuto straightens up, resting the knife on the shoulder of his jacket like he did yesterday, putting the other hand on his hip. He tilts his chin up, turning his face to the light and closing his eyes. “I wouldn’t be the chef I am today.” He laughs triumphantly.

“But Tsukishima is the sentimental one,” Terushima says.

Bokuto crosses his arms, knife still in hand. “What? Like you guys don’t have favorite tools.”

“One of Bokuto’s traits,” Terushima explains to Kenma, “is poutiness.”

Bokuto scrunches his nose. “And the others?” Nobody answers right away and he starts to turn back to his station.

“Ennoshita told me you keep the kitchen going,” Kenma offers.

Bokuto brightens, laughing again. “Hey, kid. Wanna see a knife trick?”

“No, he doesn’t,” Terushima says. Kenma sends him a glance of thanks, and he smiles. “Besides. If Bokuto is spirit, I think I’m charisma.”

“Attitude,” Iwaizumi agrees from his station.

From the moments he’s gotten to speak to Terushima, Kenma figures that’s exactly right.

“Terushima-san never gets upset,” Kageyama says evenly.

Terushima grins at him. “And you never lose your cool. Our _pâtissier_ is grace under pressure and natural calm.”

“Boundless composure,” Bokuto agrees. He hacks into the horseradish again. “Gives him those steady hands.”

Kenma glances at Kageyama’s station. He has a metal bowl filled with ice water, the outside dusted with condensation, and a glass of oil in the center. In his hand is a large transfer pipette filled with a golden liquid that looks like the color of the Tokaji wine used in his cake dish. He squeezes individual drops into the oil that keep their form, little amber spheres, before sinking below the surface.

Kuroo’s voice in Kenma’s head: _Delicate._

“Molecular gastronomy,” Kageyama says. Kenma notices long, dainty fingers. “It’s a warm mixture of Tokaji, gelatin, and sugar. The gelatin particles unravel as they heat, but when they drop into the oil, they cool and interlace together instead of dispersing like they would in water, and they form pearls.” He lifts the glass out for Kenma to see. “We use Somalian coconut sugar regularly, but for those with tree nut allergies, we use Okinawan black.” He swirls the glass and the pearls float around near the bottom.

“Chef Kuroo both appreciates and demands fine handiwork and beautiful dishes,” Tsukishima says. “Of all of our plating, he likes Kageyama’s desserts the most and allows him to devise the plating himself. And while for the rest of us the dishes are brought in parts to the pass and plated together with Chef or me as the expediter, Kuroo trusts Kageyama to plate his dishes on his own at his station before bringing them up. It takes years of practice to develop the delicacy Kageyama already had before being hired here.”

“And he’s only gotten better since,” Terushima says. “As for me, I came here and refined my palate.”

Kenma recalls Ennoshita saying something about ‘finest in the nation.’

Tsukishima nods. “Terushima is the first line of defense when tasting anything in this kitchen. Even more than me. He’s more sensitive to all seven tastes than anyone we’ve met before, and is recognized for it in the Japanese culinary world.”

“But Chef gets on me if he thinks I’m wrong.” Terushima waves his hand. “Sometimes it’s just a preference thing.”

“It’s nothing compared to him flaying Hajime every other day, anyway,” Bokuto sighs.

“But strength of character is Hajime’s thing. He always gets it done.”

Iwaizumi just gives them a low, “Mm.”

“And,” Bokuto’s brows go down, staring warily at the ovens next to Iwaizumi’s station, “that freakish sense of time. I’m talking down to the second. You haven’t looked at a clock or timer since a month in, have you? And that was just to get accustomed to our appliances.”

Iwaizumi says, “Mm.”

“If there’s anything that requires a cook time down to that small of an increment—pan sear, oven, whatever—it’s protein,” Terushima says, nodding at Iwaizumi’s back. “And he can juggle some six dishes at once, all on different time sequences.”

“Chef chose the ideal _rotisseur_ ,” Tsukishima says with finality.

Kenma looks up at him. “What about you, Chef?”

Bokuto looks over his shoulder and chuckles. “Tsukishima’s just wicked smart.”

“A meticulous eye,” Iwaizumi says, and Kageyama says, “As detail-oriented as Chef.”

“And his plating rivals Kageyama’s,” Terushima says, “at least on the savory dishes.”

“Plus, he came from Ukai’s,” Bokuto adds, “so he has the finest background. I have the most experience time-wise, but Tsukishima’s been at objectively the best restaurant compared to the rest of us. He’s just someone who was born for the culinary business. He was fully developed as a professional chef long before he came here.”

Tsukishima straightens his shoulders, laces his hands together in front of him, and looks away. He says in his steady, smooth voice, “Coming here made all the difference.”

There’s a pause; the sound of Hinata pushing the vacuum. Kenma glances around and realizes that all of the chefs are nodding.

Is this part of it, then—skill sets gained? Then what about Ennoshita, or Noya or Hinata? Everyone offers something different, so what is it that puts them on equal ground? What is it about this place—about Kuroo, or about what he’s not, or _something_ —that makes them stay?

Bokuto claps Tsukishima on the shoulder. “Sorry we took over for you, man.”

Tsukishima shakes his head. “You’re welcome to head back, Kenma.”

Kenma bows his head. “Yes, Chef.”

“Getting the hang of this place yet?” Terushima asks him.

Kenma looks at him. He’s smiling, just like usual. “It’s only my second night.”

Terushima chuckles. “Ennoshita has a good eye, anyway. The rest of us in here haven’t lost our wagers just yet.”

Tsukishima turns and disappears into the pantry.

“We ought to cut it out with the metaphors, huh?” Ennoshita calls, standing at the house side of the pass. “Get your arms ready, Kenma.” He turns over his shoulder. “Hinata.”

Hinata stops in the middle of the house, looks up, and shuts off the vacuum. The cord is tangled amongst the tables. “Yes?”

Ennoshita sighs. “This is why Akaashi usually does it,” he murmurs. He calls out, “Kenma says he wants to race you on tables.”

Kenma considers using some energy to say something, but just keeps his mouth shut. Though the kitchen isn’t uncomfortable, he prefers the house anyway. Tables it is.

Hinata props the vacuum and grins. “Ohhh!”

“Sorry, Kenma,” Bokuto says. “This time, my money’s on Hinata.”

In the time it took Hinata to do every booth, Kenma only finished four tables. They dusted, wiped doors and windows and every single chair once again. Payed extra attention to the seats of the booth Mr. and Mrs. Uematsu were in yesterday just in case they missed any honey in the crevices after service last night. Kuroo left Akaashi’s office to prep with his chefs in the kitchen, and whether the claw was there, pressing on his skin through his new outfit or not, Kenma told himself he didn’t care enough to pay attention. The glances he made toward the kitchen during house prep were precautionary alone.

Though the shell cordovan shoes have actually kept his feet from hurting, Kenma’s spine still isn’t used to all the bending and arm movements by the time Akaashi comes out in his suit jacket and gold tie clip, holding a stack of papers.

Bokuto sees him and whistles. He calls out, “To the pass,” and Kenma answers _Yes_ with everyone.

They gather over the reflective countertop Hinata cleaned once again—chefs in the kitchen, servers in the house. Kenma takes another glance up at Kuroo. He’s the same chef he was at this point last night, looking equally as militaristic and Michelin in presence as Tsukishima did earlier. In a sense, even more so, since he’s broader, fits his jacket better, has the black hair contrasting the red at his collar, the invisible presence of his other eye.

Kuroo’s gaze flicks to him, and Kenma’s cheek tingles before he looks away to Akaashi.

“Let’s begin,” Akaashi says. “At six o’clock, we have six tables. Hinata will be serving a Mr. Esashi, Mr. Furuhashi, Mr. Matsuno, and Mr. Mitsuyoshi from Itochu Corporation. The former three have dined with us before, and are now introducing Mr. Mitsuyoshi to the company as well as to our restaurant. Noya, do you recall Mr. Esashi’s wine preference from four months ago?”

Noya nods. “We have a twenty-twelve Chevalier-Montrachet les Demoiselles. He prefers chilled, so I’ll make sure it’s on ice before we open.”

“Very good. Hinata will also be serving a Mr. and Mrs. Kasagi from Canon. This is their first time dining with us, and she is vegetarian, so be prepared for double appetizers up front should she be substituting for an entrée.”

He reads out the overviews, Kenma paying close attention to his tables, filing away names and important information into slots in his memory. It’s a lot, and he figures Ennoshita, Hinata, and Akaashi have all built up their memory capacity over time. As Akaashi begins the eight o’clock time slot, Kenma reminds himself that the pages will be available at the pass should he need them, though somehow, he didn’t last night.

“The next table are two guests coming in from Moscow tonight on business with Sberbank tomorrow—a Mr. Belyakov and Ms. Yenin. Their interpreter won’t be with them, but they speak some general English, so that’s what I’ll be working with—”

“Kenma speaks Russian,” Ennoshita says.

There’s a pause while everyone looks at him. A pulse of anxiety snaps Kenma out of his focus and he looks at Akaashi. “I—only know a little.”

Unfortunately, Akaashi nods. “Perfect. Even just a greeting will show hospitality.”

Kenma swallows. Had he known yesterday, he could have asked Lev for something. But, yesterday, he didn’t even think he was coming back here.

Isn’t there an actual phrase for hospitality? Lev told him about it once, didn’t he? Lev has told him lots of phrases and proverbs he’s only paid half-attention to. His good memory is clearly for the short term—probably another side effect of all the gaming. If only he could text Lev, or even Yaku might know something useful from living with Lev for a few years now. But his phone is locked away in mahogany jail with a Maneki Neko.

“I trust you to do that for us,” Akaashi says. “Be prepared for when they arrive, and you’ll take a moment to greet them along with me.”

Kenma puts his hands behind his back and, foolishly, concedes with a nod. “Yes, sir.”

“Ennoshita will be serving…”

Kenma swallows again, throat dry. Without meaning to, his eyes drift back up to Kuroo. He’s already looking, face angled toward Akaashi but his eye slid sideways, lidded, on Kenma.

What will happen, now that Kenma has agreed to it, if he can’t pull through and think of anything in the presence of the customers? Will it be all right like Ennoshita hopes for from tonight? Will he get flayed like one of the chefs? Will Akaashi be angry with him? Will he get fired?

The thought sends another pulse of anxiety through his chest, and he doesn’t understand it. If anything, the idea of getting fired should put him at ease—a choice made for him to eliminate any more nervous decision-making. Right?

Accidentally, he brings up one of his gloved hands and tucks his hair behind his ear.

Kuroo barely smiles and looks away.

Kenma takes a breath. He turns back to their _maître D’_ and levels his heels on the ground. His heart beats as he awaits the information for his other tables, and the moment when Kuroo tells Akaashi to open the doors for round two.

As his second service begins, the rhythm sets in, and the first hour and a half ticks by out of his awareness. His tables run smoothly, all the lines he didn’t even know just over twenty-four hours ago branded perfectly in his mind. Finding Noya, taking orders, calling them out to the guys in the kitchen and receiving that resounding _Yes_ from them all. If he finds in certain moments that the claw is on him, he tells himself he doesn’t notice.

“Service,” Tsukishima says, placing the final foie gras entrée onto Kenma’s platter.

“Yes, Chef.” Kenma lifts it from the pass and turns on his heel in his usual fluid motion, but something feels off. His eyes flick to the edge of the tray, and compared with the edge of the countertop, it isn’t parallel. Foie gras, Kobe, and…

_Keep the salmon closest to the line from your wrist to your elbow. You’ll stop being so careless._

He turns the tray, rotating it in the palm of his glove. Immediately, his fingers feel like they’re doing less work, his forearm relaxing. The platter levels out.

He tells himself it isn’t there on him now—the claw, that gaze. If he turned to look, Kuroo wouldn’t be watching him from somewhere in the kitchen.

For some reason, he’s too afraid to prove himself right.

He makes his way to his table.

Twenty more minutes, steady hands and happy customers and only twice listening to Kuroo snap at Iwaizumi and Bokuto. With a brief moment at the pass to rest, he adjusts his gloves, running a fingertip around his wrists, and glances up at the platinum clock. 7:58.

He straightens up and scans the house. Noya giving wine service to a table with a forty-thousand-yen merlot. Ennoshita serving a table of two middle-aged couples with the husbands on their phones and the wives too interested in their handsome server. Hinata checking in on the appetizers of one of his tables, pouring water into glasses from a chilled bottle. Akaashi, empty platter in arm, bowing to his table and starting toward the pass. He looks in Kenma’s direction.

“Thought of it yet?”

Kenma startles at Kuroo’s voice over his shoulder—a low hum in his ear, nearly a whisper. He can imagine Kuroo leaning over the pass the way he does, on his forearms, his collar hiked up to just underneath his jaw. That curve at the corner of his lips. The shadow behind his bangs.

Kenma still refuses to turn his head.

From the moment Akaashi gets here, puts down his platter, tells him it’s time, and leads him to the front doors, Kenma will have about fifteen seconds before he’s expected to say something to the customers who have arrived tonight in Tokyo from Moscow. Fifteen seconds to pull up one of his older files, the ones he doesn’t even remember putting away. Fifteen seconds to put faith in Lev having given him something both relevant and coherent at some point in the past.

Kenma doesn’t lie. He says nothing.

Kuroo hums. “This restaurant will provide each customer with a good service and a good evening. Will you be able to—”

“Yes, Chef.”

He feels Kuroo shift behind him at the interruption. But never mind that—never mind Kuroo contradicting his own words with his occasional behavior towards customers. It’s in what Kuroo said: _Good evening._ Kenma can’t remember the word for _hello_ to save his life tonight, but something comes up in his head, a dusty file from long ago in high school on the first night he ever went over to Lev’s parents’ house. Lev greeted him at eight o’clock with his smiling older sister behind him, hands clasped together, all too excited for a dinner guest. At the time, it was almost a joke, but when he opened the door and saw Kenma waiting there, maybe to show off for Alisa, Lev said…

“Yes.” Kenma turns and looks into Kuroo’s eye, not half a meter from his face. “I will.”

Kuroo blinks once. And then Kenma can almost hear the whetted _shink_ of the smirk cutting across Kuroo’s cheek again before he says almost the same thing he did last night, but entirely different: “Then I’m counting on you.”

Something between them shifts fundamentally.

As they stand there looking at each other, Kenma realizes that the fight is different now. In his head, they’re still standing in the ring, but this time Kuroo isn’t towering over him waiting for Kenma to tap out. This time, they’re across from each other, facing inward straight-on, and Kuroo, sweat glistening under the lights, grins and raises his gloves, inviting Kenma to keep going.

Kenma nods once to his executive chef.

Akaashi approaches them. He opens his mouth to say something, but Kenma beats him to it. “Are the customers here from Moscow?”

Akaashi closes his mouth, then nods. “They’re arriving now.”

“I don’t have much,” Kenma says, “but it’s something.”

If Kenma isn’t mistaken, this time Akaashi’s mouth curves up at the corner, just the slightest. “I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t trust you.” He tilts his head at the doors. “To the front.”

Kenma follows.

The man and woman walk up the stone steps and approach the double doors, Mr. Belyakov in a suit that probably cost the worth of Kenma’s life, and Ms. Yenin in a dress that probably cost Hinata’s. Akaashi opens the door for them and bows. As they smile at him, he says in good, slightly accented English, “ _Welcome to Tiger’s Eye._ ” He gestures inward, and Kenma takes the cue.

He bows and says, “ _Dobriy vyecher._ ” His accent is sub-par, but that’s what he gets for not paying enough attention to his best friend. It’s Lev—what can he say? “ _V nogakh pravdy nyet._ ”

Their faces light up. Mr. Belyakov chuckles, and Kenma suddenly thinks that Ms. Yenin looks a lot like Alisa with shorter, darker hair. As they cross the threshold into the restaurant, she begins saying something to him in quick Russian that he doesn’t understand—only catching _thank you_ and _surprised_.

He bows again, hands held in front of him. “ _Prinoshu izvineniya. Ya plokha—pa ruski—_ ”

“ _Don’t worry,_ ” Mr. Belyakov says in English. “ _We enjoy your hospitality_.”

Kenma looks at Akaashi. He translates casually and effortlessly, and Kenma figures this isn’t the first time he’s done this, and the customers look comfortable around an interpreter as it is.

Not much, but enough. Mission accomplished.

Akaashi says, “ _Please follow me to your table. We will have Kenma bring you a bottle of Finé water, and if you’d like, our sommelier can assist you in choosing a wine for this evening._ ”

“ _Thank you_ _very much_ ,” Ms. Yenin says.

Akaashi looks at Kenma. “Grab Noya and a water. Well done.”

Kenma nods, offers one more bow, and turns, subtly closing his fist in victory at his side. He hails Noya, who’s already on it, and makes his way to the kitchen.

“Somebody looks pleased with himself,” Terushima teases. He flashes Kenma a grin from his station.

Hinata, at the pass, asks, “You really speak Russian?”

Kenma hums. He owes Lev one. “Just enough, it seems.”

“ _Cool_.”

At the counter next to Iwaizumi’s station, Kuroo turns to look at him. Kenma holds his gaze for a moment, then turns back and glances again at the table. The customers are seated, speaking with Akaashi. Ms. Yenin motions in the direction Kenma left with a smile on, and Akaashi smiles a little in return and nods as if agreeing with something. He says a few words and bows his head in thanks.

“You just got more Akaashi points, kid,” Bokuto says.

Hinata’s eyes sparkle up at him. “Those are hard to get.”

“Well done,” Terushima says. He smiles at Kenma, flambéing without looking.

Kenma exhales out the rest of the nerves and murmurs, “ _Spasiba_.”

Tsukishima calls for service and Hinata takes his platter as Ennoshita walks up to the pass. “Calling out,” he says. The chefs nod. “Kobe, very rare, and scallop, light on the tamarind.” The chefs answer back a _Yes_ and Ennoshita turns to Kenma. “As expected of a literature student.”

Kenma sighs. “That has nothing to do with it.”

Ennoshita laughs. “You’re getting water, aren’t you?”

Right. Kenma makes his way around the pass, down the hallway into cold storage. He finds one of the bottles of artesian mineral water and pulls it out with a clink, holding one hand flat under the base and the other at the neck. He starts back out into the hallway, but as he crosses the doorway, Kuroo is standing there smiling down at him.

“Chef.” Kenma stands there between the wall and Kuroo. Down the hallway, through the threshold into the kitchen, he can just partially see Kageyama moving at the furthest end of his station.

“I suppose Akaashi is happy with you,” Kuroo says. He tilts his head. “You’ve certainly pleased me.”

Kenma watches Kuroo’s hand come up again, finding the same piece of his hair. This time, nearly facing him, Kenma’s heart beats even harder. But, he thought, before the table…

“Chef,” he says again. He wants to say _This is inappropriate_ or _Should you be doing this?_ But the words don’t happen.

Defer to the chef, right?

Kuroo’s finger twirls around and around. It’s too soft for a chef’s hand and Kenma’s cheek feels like it’s on fire.

“Two nights in a row,” Kuroo says with a chuckle. “You’re good, aren’t you?”

Kenma turns his face to the side.

Kuroo hums and lowers his hand. Kenma breathes a quiet, almost silent sigh and his eyes slip closed.

In the brief moment that he can see nothing, where one sense is gone, the rest heighten. He can smell the light, sour scent of the tamarind puree Terushima pours into a bottle. He can hear the sounds of the cooling unit behind him, the kitchen a few meters down the hall, the house on the other side. He can hear Kuroo’s low voice say, “ _Very_ good.” In the moment, he can feel Kuroo’s hand come to rest on his lower back and slide down to take a handful of his ass.

The fundamental shift before was wrong. This is the real one.

_So just, you know, watch your ass. Literally. His hand’s got a penchant._

He didn’t take it that seriously at the time, and after earlier tonight, not five minutes ago, he thought something had changed. He was wrong—maybe nothing is different at all. To Kuroo, he’s still just a toy like everyone else in this position who has the same body type as him, who can fit perfectly into a uniform they already have handy for the next one who shows up. Who can fit perfectly into Kuroo’s right hand. He’s been foolish and naive to come back to this restaurant with an executive chef who treats his servers this way. To return here when he…when Kuroo…

_No more pity. No more._

The only one left who can pity him now is himself.

Screw it if the kitchen can hear him. Screw it if he’s out on the front walk like Ennoshita said. Finding another job, trudging back up however many more dead-end paths, is still better than this.

This isn’t worth enduring, and Kuroo isn’t worth deferring to. Things will change, or Kenma will leave. He said he would fight. He doesn’t lie.

In the ring, he begins to pull back a fist.

He pulls away from Kuroo’s hand, then turns his body toward Kuroo and takes a step back—away from Kuroo, towards the kitchen. “With all due respect, Chef.” He looks up at Kuroo, and it must be something about the way his face appears that makes the smirk falter at the corner of Kuroo’s lips. “Don’t do that to me again.”

There is an audible drop in noise level from the kitchen, not great enough to stop working, but not small enough to fool either of them into thinking the others haven’t noticed. Kenma wonders if Ennoshita is still at the pass, if he can somehow hear them too.

“Excuse me, Kozume?” Kuroo says.

Kenma’s hands tighten on the bottle.

_Enough. Enough of this_ bullshit _. This is pathetic._ You _are pathetic._

“Whatever you have going on in your life,” Kenma says flatly, louder than he means to, “or whatever happened to you does not excuse the way you’re choosing to behave towards me. Let go of this death grip you’re holding on the control you think you need to have over everybody around you. I don’t know why you’re chasing us away, but in the end, it doesn’t matter. If you keep doing things like this, treating people the way you do, it won’t just be faceless servers like me walking out on you.”

In the dim of the hallway, Kuroo recoils. His brow twitches and his lips part, but it quickly resolves into a recognizable anger. It’s sad that Kenma already knows that face, with hardly twenty-four hours of Kuroo being in his life.

“Don’t think you can speak to—”

“I don’t care,” Kenma says. “I don’t care what level of power you have. I don’t care who you are. A bad person is a bad person regardless.” He turns before Kuroo has the chance to say anything else.

When he passes the kitchen, Iwaizumi and Kageyama are keeping their heads down, but Terushima and Bokuto are looking at him, and Tsukishima is looking at the hallway. Ennoshita, still at the pass after all, says, “Kenma.”

Kenma just shakes his head and goes past them all. His gloves are wet and his hands are freezing as he carries the water out to the table.

The rest of service is spent moving without stopping, deflecting anything about the occurrence, and avoiding eye contact. At least regarding the latter, Kuroo seems to be doing the same.

By the time the doors are closed and they’ve started cleaning the house, any trace of adrenaline, anger, or nerves is gone, and Kenma feels exhausted. His body is tired, but his mind has gone entirely.

He keeps hearing Ennoshita saying _Because you seem like you can do something about it_ in his head and wondering when it ever became his job.

He looks down at the gloves on his hands. Closes them and opens them again.

“Um…Kenma-san?” Hinata is looking at him across one of the tables with hesitant eyes. “Did something,” he drops to a whisper, “happen with Chef?”

If it were anyone else, he’d brush it away curtly and not give the question a second thought, but he can’t with Hinata. He sighs and lowers his hands to his sides. “Don’t worry about me.”

Hinata looks at the kitchen, looks down, looks back at him. “I don’t think I am.”

Kenma looks at him, trying to figure it out, but his brain can’t put in the effort. Hinata looks past him again and bows his head, and Kenma turns to see Akaashi paused there. The manager doesn’t have to say anything. Kenma follows him to his office.

He closes the door to a sliver behind them and says, “Go ahead.”

Akaashi rounds his desk. “I’m not going to fire you.”

“Is he?”

Akaashi doesn’t answer, and it says enough.

Kenma watches him open a drawer. “I don’t want another check.”

“I’m not giving you one.” He pulls out his phone and keys and slides them into his pockets. “We can all leave early tonight.” He looks up at Kenma. “Chef’s orders.”

“He could be easily reported.” At the same time that he says it, he hears Ennoshita’s voice again last night: _But Kuroo is a rich man, and nobody wants to deal with him._ He looks at the ground. “Why am I in here?”

“I wanted to apologize on his behalf,” Akaashi says.

Kenma stares at him. “How often do you clean up after him? How long have you been following him around, picking up the mess?”

Akaashi looks him in the eyes. “Ten months.”

Ten months. Since the third star.

What _happened_ back then?

Kenma looks away. “I don’t understand enough.”

“I’m sure you’ll find out if you keep trying.”

Kenma squints at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Akaashi sighs softly and looks down. “I’m sorry. I’m trying all I can. It comes down to his choice, and I have to hire people because we need the help. It’s not enough for the house with just the three of us here. You’ve lightened our load incredibly.”

_And put so much on my shoulders_ , Kenma thinks. “You’re asking me to carry too much. You, Ennoshita—all of you. And I don’t even know what I’m holding.”

Akaashi nods. “I know.”

Kenma waits for him to say something else, but he doesn’t. He says, quieter than he meant to, more dramatically than he wanted, “Have a little mercy.”

Akaashi looks at him again. “I’m not going to fire you, and I can’t ask you to leave. If you want to, you’ll have to tell me.”

Kenma opens his mouth, but nothing comes out.

Akaashi closes his eyes. When he opens them again, he says, “The kitchen’s almost done; Ennoshita and I can take care of the last few things in the house. Tell Hinata you two can head out. Get some rest.”

He walks toward the door. Kenma moves out of his way and is left in Akaashi’s office alone. He stands there, trying to think, to make some kind of decision, but it’s all empty.

He goes back out, closing the door behind him. “Hinata.”

Hinata looks over at him. “Yes?”

“You have a safe way home, right? Chef and Akaashi say we can leave.”

Hinata’s shoulders drop a little. “This early? Oh. Okay.” He nods and looks toward the kitchen where Tsukishima, Bokuto, and Kageyama are all doing dishes. “Yeah. I live really close.”

Kenma smiles a little. “You must have a nice apartment.”

Hinata’s cheeks get a little red and he rubs his neck. “Well, we—make a lot here.”

Kenma nods. “We better.”

For some reason, it makes Hinata grin widely.

They head toward the hall together, and Hinata tells him good night as Kenma goes to the mahogany cubbies. He picks up his phone, looks at the absurd time—1:27, hardly early. He sees a text from Tendou that says, _Got in trouble for accidentally burning a student’s hair in lab and she cried! How’s your chef?_ He hopes Tendou is asleep for once in his life when he gets home tonight.

He gets his keys as someone comes around behind him. Terushima’s hand reaches into the cubby next to his and picks up the keys with the charms on them. Kenma blinks up at him. “Those are yours, Teru—” he catches himself, “Yuuji-san?”

Terushima grins. “Please drop the honorific, we’ll both be more comfortable.” He chuckles. “The charms? Yeah, my grandmother gave me the Neko when I was a kid, and,” he puts a fingertip gently under the omamori, lifting it, “the day I graduated culinary school, I went to a shrine to thank the gods and got this one for myself.”

Kenma looks at the characters: _shiawase_. “Why not success or money?”

Terushima— _Yuuji_ smiles at him and shrugs a shoulder. “I guess happiness just seemed better than the rest.”

Kenma remembers Kageyama’s even voice: _Terushima-san never gets upset._ “Oh.”

Yuuji folds the keys into his palm. He looks over at Kenma. “You probably don’t want to talk about it, do you.”

Kenma looks into the cubby at nothing. “Not really.”

Yuuji nods. “Well, what you did was pretty sick, either way.”

It makes Kenma laugh, once. He closes his eyes and shakes his head.

“And tomorrow?” Yuuji asks. “Will you return?”

“Akaashi said he wasn’t firing me,” Kenma answers.

“Of course he isn’t.”

Kenma looks up at him again. “I’m an idiot if I do.”

Yuuji nods and puts his hands in his pockets. “I think the same thing every single day.”

When they get outside, the expensive luxury car Kenma was expecting is just a regular Toyota sedan, at least a few years old, silver. Yuuji turns to him from his door and says, “Night, Kenma.” He salutes with his keys in his hand, jingling, and Kenma imagines the Neko waving to him again.

“Bye, Yuuji.”

Yuuji gets in his car and drives away.

“Good dude, huh?” Noya says, coming up next to him. “I’d say almost all of the guys here are.”

Kenma sighs.

“You don’t actually live close to here, do you,” Noya says.

Kenma won’t look at him. Noya’s eyes are weirdly big and his presence is persuasive. “Not by foot.”

“I’m telling Asahi and we’re driving you home tonight.” He holds something out in his hand, and Kenma finally glances. It’s a lollipop, mystery flavor. “Want one?”

All at once, Kenma feels petty. He sighs again and looks at Noya. “I’m okay. Thanks.”

Noya laughs and puts it back in his pocket. “Yeah, I know you are.”

Iwaizumi and Kageyama exit and tell them goodbye.

The SUV Kenma recognizes pulls up, and Noya raises a hand, motioning to the curb. Asahi brings the car up close to the sidewalk and rolls down the passenger window. “How’s the night, guys?” He smiles gently. “Nice to meet you, Kenma. Sorry I didn’t get to know you yesterday. I’m Asahi.”

Kenma bows a little. “Don’t worry. You too.”

“Oh, you know.” Noya waves his lollipop. “Kuroo being a dick to the new hire. Same old.”

Asahi makes a concerned expression at Kenma. “Again? I’m sorry about that.”

Kenma just shakes his head. Noya isn’t wrong to say that most of them are good guys—even Asahi is kind, and he doesn’t even work here.

“But Kenma did one better than me,” Noya says.

Asahi’s brows turn up in the middle, worried. “Oh no.”

Noya laughs, tilting his chin up, the lollipop sticking out from his mouth. “Since I slapped him, Asahi’s probably imagining you nailing him in the nuts or something,” he says to Kenma. “No.” He turns to the window. “Kenma _scolded_ him. In front of the whole place.”

Well, the whole kitchen at least. Why does it sound like Noya is bragging for him? Has nobody done it before?

Kuroo deserved it.

“Looked like he hit him where it hurts, too,” Noya says.

“Where’s that?” Asahi asks nervously. Kenma awaits the answer.

Noya shrugs. “Hell if I know. He just looked like you might have actually kicked him in the nuts after all.”

“And honestly.” Bokuto comes out from door number two, running a hand back over his hair. “Good for you, kid. Even I have trouble chewing him out like that after, what, like a decade of knowing the guy?” He grins and joins them, nodding to Asahi. “What’s up, man?”

“What did you not expect?” Kenma says.

There’s a pause as the three of them look at him standing there. Kenma keeps his eyes on Bokuto.

Bokuto tilts his head. “Huh?”

“The first night—” Kenma cuts off. The first night was _last_ night. The time he’s spent here has already felt like ages. “Last night, in the hallway, you said there was something you didn’t expect at all.”

Bokuto pauses, blinking. He laughs a little, touches his hair again, and says, “Yeah, sometimes things just come out of my mouth.”

It frustrates Kenma, so obviously a deflection, but he doesn’t have the wherewithal to push for it any further.

Bokuto looks at the door as it opens again. It’s Ennoshita and Akaashi, and fortunately for Kenma, Ennoshita gives him space and bids them goodnight. “All I’m saying is…” Bokuto begins. He smiles at Akaashi holding the door handle as it swings closed so it doesn’t shut too loudly. “I think you’ve got something on him.” He grins at Kenma. “I would know—I’m the old wise guy around here.”

“Are you ready?” Akaashi comes to Bokuto’s side, a bag slung over his shoulder, just the right size to hold paperwork.

Bokuto looks at Kenma and says gently, “I got got a long time ago.”

Kenma doesn’t know what to say.

“Have a good night, everyone,” Akaashi says. The two of them head out.

“Damn,” Noya mutters.

Kenma looks at him. “What?”

Noya spins his lollipop. “I’d been thinking so, but now that Bokuto said so, too…”

Whatever he’s talking about, it doesn’t matter anymore. Not tonight. All Kenma wants is to get home and sleep. His body hasn’t adjusted to this much output yet. “Nice to meet you again,” he says, giving Asahi one more look before making his attempt and his first step down the sidewalk.

“Oh, Asahi.”

“Yeah?”

“Kenma wants a ride home tonight.”

“Oh, of course.”

Kenma stops. After working with Ennoshita, he figures Noya learned from the best. He turns back to see Noya grinning and holding the back door open for him.

“Where to?” Asahi calls out to him.

…

He doesn’t know if Kei would have come back with him tonight or not, but he didn’t ask. It’s only when he steps into the dark of his house and closes the door behind him that he even realizes the feeling that he’s alone.

He doesn’t bother turning on the light. The house became empty more than a year ago. There’s nothing left to see since half of him walked out.

_It won’t just be faceless servers like me walking out on you._

When was the last time the word _sorry_ came out of his mouth? Has it been since then?

He kicks off his shoes, drops his jacket onto the sofa as he walks past in the dark. Through his bedroom door, into his bathroom, he pads across the tile and flicks on the light. He squints in the brightness, and for a moment, in the mirror, his face is blurred out—a pallid oval with no undertone half-hidden beneath a black, amorphous shape. When he blinks and focuses in, he’s vapid and flat.

“You’re not faceless,” he says out loud, but it sounds ridiculous in his voice.

He looks down at his hand, closes it and opens it again.

He looks back up and says, “Sorry.” His brows go down. “I said that I’m sorry.” He leans onto the counter on his hands. “Because I don’t know what else to do.”

He stops. The conversation in his head isn’t going to happen. The house will be down a hand tomorrow, and eventually Akaashi will bring him new options if someone else is foolish enough to apply to work at his restaurant.

He brings his fingertips up and touches the edge of his bangs at the middle of his forehead. His hair would be softer if he took care of it—smooth and fluid, enough to slip through his fingers like individual strands of thin, half-blond silk.

He doesn’t want other options.

His hand pulls away. He turns the light off on his way out.

* * *

**HC: Kenma began picking up Russian phrases from the day he met Lev in first year. Lev’s family moved from Russia in his final year of middle school, so he was still working on Japanese at the time and mixed the two languages together constantly. Kenma was actually a big help in Lev’s language learning, though neither of them really realizes it.**

**Yuuji regularly visits shrines and temples and is a very spiritual person. He has an external locus of control, believes in fate, karma, and enlightenment, and generally moves with the flow of life around him.**

**Kuroo rarely looks in the mirror.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For any native speakers of Russian or any of the languages that I use, please feel free to comment and correct me if I get anything wrong, or if my romanization for languages with non-roman alphabets should be done a different way. I did as much research as I could!
> 
> _Dobriy vyecher_ : Good evening.
> 
> _V nogakh pravdy nyet_ : Literally: “There’s no truth in standing on your feet.” An idiom for hospitality that essentially means, “Come in, sit down, relax.”
> 
> _Prinoshu izvineniya. Ya plokha—pa ruski—_ : I apologize. I’m bad—at Russian—
> 
> _Spasiba_ : Thank you.
> 
> The characters for _shiawase_ on Yuuji’s amulet are these: 幸せ


	8. people who live in glass houses have a silver lining.

The regret doesn’t hit Kenma until Ennoshita catches his eye from the house as he walks in the next day. Ennoshita moves so quickly towards him that he doesn’t even get a chance to greet anyone in the kitchen before his head server takes his arm and leads him into the back room.

Ennoshita stops them there, turns to Kenma, and puts his hands on his hips and a smile on his face. “First of all, I’m not surprised you’re back.”

“Let’s go work.”

Ennoshita keeps smiling. “Second of all, I’m glad.”

Kenma doesn’t bother trying to interject.

“And third of all.” The smile fades off and his brows go down, not so much concern as unease. “What did you do to him?”

Kenma stands there. “What?”

Ennoshita tilts his chin out in the direction of the kitchen, hands tightening at his hips. “Chef is here. He got here at two twenty-three.”

Not just early for Kuroo, but early for any of them besides Akaashi. But it doesn’t mean anything. It’s nothing—just an outlier.

“There’s no reason that’s because of what I said,” Kenma returns. “Sounds like a coincidence.”

Ennoshita doesn’t take it. “Coincidences don’t happen in this restaurant.”

Kenma actually laughs a little. Everything surrounding this matter is laughable at this point. He shakes his head and looks sideways. “That’s really moving.”

“Sometimes it’s more than just buzzed, sometimes he’s all right, sometimes he’s roaring mad the moment he turns the handle,” Ennoshita says. The low volume of his voice pulls Kenma back in and flashes him back to their first night, ages and ages ago on Sunday. “You never know with him. Everything is a façade.” He sighs again and starts to pace. “Since ten months ago, Kuroo doesn’t follow anybody’s rules but his own. He doesn’t capitulate to anything. And he doesn’t come in early.” He regards Kenma sideways, eyeing him from halfway across the room. “I couldn’t hear the words spoken, but I know they weren’t good. What did you say to him?”

The way he words it makes Kenma squint. “You’ll take his side, then?”

Ennoshita lowers his arms. “I just want to know what was said.”

“The loyalty you all have to him is beyond me,” Kenma says evenly.

Ennoshita closes his eyes and pushes his hair back, sighing. “I’m sorry. I’m not meaning to take sides. I care about this place and I would like to see things go smoothly for everybody. Including you, because you seem—”

“What makes it my job?”

Ennoshita looks up at him with eyes that seem to droop at the corners, aided by his expression.

“Why is it up to me to figure it out?” Kenma asks. “I wanted work. I wanted to make money so I can be a better roommate and see my friends and feel like a successful human who does something. I didn’t ask for all of this to be put on me.”

“It’s not us,” Ennoshita says quietly. “He’s the one who chose.”

Kenma frowns. “Akaashi hired me. You picked me as someone to teach and someone to bet on because I’m good at this job—”

“That’s not what I’m talking about. That’s not why we’re betting on you.”

Kenma stops. This game isn’t fair. _None_ of this is fair. Here he is, back in Tiger’s Eye again—and for what? The money? He could get money elsewhere. The work? There are thousands of restaurants in Tokyo.

What is it that is making him stay?

“Something here is very wrong,” he says again, but this time it doesn’t come out as strongly. There’s a rasp to his voice.

Ennoshita just looks at him. “What did he do to you?”

It’s all so useless.

For a brief moment, Kenma wonders who did hear the words, or if anybody saw it. If maybe Kageyama at his station near the doorway saw him standing there frozen, unable to negate the outcome of the situation, held in Kuroo’s hand in the dim of the hall both metaphorically and literally.

He draws in a breath. “I said what should have been after he touched me inappropriately.”

Ennoshita puts a hand on his hip again and rubs his forehead with the other. “Jesus. Of course he did. That’s why I wanted to warn you before it happened.”

Kenma turns around. His cheeks feel fuzzy and hot. This conversation was a waste of time. “I’m going to work.”

“Wait.”

“If that’s all you have to say then please excuse me.”

“I’m _telling_ you, Kenma.”

Kenma stops, annoyed, embarrassed, frustrated, and ashamed, and turns partway to look at him.

“Something is different,” Ennoshita says. “With him. Whatever you said, you hit something dead on.”

_Looked like he hit him where it hurts, too._

_Where’s that?_

For some reason, it doesn’t make him feel any better.

“I’m going to work,” he says again.

“He told Hajime good morning.”

Kenma’s first thought is, _It’s afternoon_ , and his second is, _So?_ He ends up saying nothing.

“We all bet on you for a reason,” Ennoshita says. “Why did you study literature?”

Kenma faces him. “Ennoshita-san, I’m going out to prep the house. Please stop talking about this and join me because I would—” his throat tightens and he angles his face away, “rather not work alone.”

Everything—all the disquieted curiosity and frantic insistence—drops away from Ennoshita’s face. He looks at Kenma and says, “Okay. Let’s go find Hinata.”

Kenma nods. How red is his face? He swallows the tightness down and refuses to look at the pity in Ennoshita’s eyes.

He feels Ennoshita’s hand land gently on his shoulder. “It’s an easy day today. Just the basic stuff. Hinata won’t mind doing a lot, and Tuesday service is never too bad.”

“I can work.”

“Take a break during service. An actual break. You forget to.”

Kenma tucks his hair behind his ear. “I can work. I’m fine.”

Ennoshita hums. “I know you are.”

As Kenma follows him out, and as they pass the kitchen, he sees Kuroo there—standing straight, jacket buttoned closed, working. When Kuroo notices him and they catch each other’s gaze, his dark eye widens almost imperceptibly. He’s the first one to look away.

Service runs just the way Ennoshita could have wanted. Kuroo says and does nothing to Kenma. Even during the seven-minute break Kenma takes, standing by himself at the back of the hallway near the bathroom door because it feels too pathetic to actually go in, Kuroo rounds the corner and sees him there, and though conditions are perfect for something like yesterday—even better, with no eyes to see or ears to listen—Kuroo just stops himself with a hand caught on the wall, breaks their gaze first again, and turns to walk away.

Kenma stands there alone in the dark. Victory never tasted so bitter.

Did he even win? Or did the fight just give out.

Hinata tells him after the doors close and the kitchen shuts down that he looks cool as a server. Akaashi compliments his natural affinity and aptitude for the position. Though the two of them don’t seem to have as much motive—though Kenma thinks he can speak more for Hinata than Akaashi—it still feels like too much.

And yet, the only thing Kenma has demonstrated so far besides his aptitude is that, regardless of what Kuroo apparently does, he will still return here the next day.

How indecisive must he look to everyone in the restaurant.

But they all keep coming back, too.

He gives Asahi a bow of the head and a thanks as he escapes the SUV and Noya’s casual persuasion. Noya’s presence is large, loud, and innate, and when Kenma gets into the car with him, trapped completely, Noya’s attitude and chatter bleeds over and tricks him into feeling okay.

As he walks up the stairs to their apartment, he realizes he’s holding a mystery flavor lollipop in his hand.

He can hear Vivaldi before he even opens the door. “Do you like these?” he calls over the music, stepping in and shutting the door behind him. He looks at his keys in his hand and wonders if he should put a charm on them. Maybe a talisman for warding away evil.

Tendou appears from inside the bathroom with a mask on and a bandana over his hair, a spray bottle of his special home-brewed chemical mix labeled KENMA DON’T TOUCH and an abrasive sponge held in the hands of his elbow-length gloves. Everything smells like the instant, antiseptic microbial death that Kenma has grown accustomed to.

Tendou points to Kenma’s bed and he nods. “Do you like these?” He holds the lollipop out.

“What flavor?” Tendou asks. He’s swaying his head back and forth to _L’Estro Armonico_.

Kenma shrugs. “Noya gave it to me.”

Tendou places down his cleaning supplies and comes over to him, pulling his mask to his chin. “Noya?”

All at once, Kenma realizes that three days later, he still hasn’t explained anything about his job and the restaurant to Tendou yet. All he has done is complain about Kuroo. Last night, when he told Tendou about what Kuroo did, Tendou’s pupils went pinpoint and he said calmly that he would flay Kuroo to shreds so tattered and unrecognizable that even after finding each ribbon of him scattered across Tokyo, his own mother still wouldn’t be able to identify his body. Kenma held back some sort of manic smile and said that he was okay. Tendou made him honey oolong instead.

But this time, he has nothing to say about Kuroo except that there’s nothing to say. It’s about time he filled everybody in on what going to work at Tiger’s Eye is like, executive chef included or not.

“Our sommelier,” Kenma says. He hands the lollipop over for Tendou to inspect. “Let’s play something tomorrow. Get on the chat.”

Tendou nods. “I’ve got another forty hours in me—”

“Preternaturally.”

“—and Lev and Yaku will be available as usual.” Tendou looks up at him. “You think you’ll stay awake?”

Kenma sighs. He understands more now what Akaashi meant about devoting his time. It has been nothing but work, eat, and sleep. He’s banking on getting used to it.

He hums and nods. “I have Thursday off anyway.”

Tendou tilts his head. “So do our comrades. Lucky coincidence.”

Ennoshita’s voice says, _Coincidences don’t happen in this restaurant,_ in his head, and Kenma pushes it away because it shouldn’t apply. He hums again.

“As for Waka,” Tendou says, “you know he goes to bed by midnight. Such a good boy. But I can be commander for the day, or I’m sure Yaku would love to bark orders at Lev in-game as well as in real life. And you can catch us all up.”

A tired laugh comes out of Kenma’s lungs. In the end, he has really great friends. “Yeah. Okay.”

“Done and done.” Tendou pockets the lollipop for later.

…

Lev and Yaku listen to everything. With his controller in hand, Kenma leans on his knees and tells them about what Tiger’s Eye looks like, the outside and the insignia and the inner décor and the menu and dishes. Every chef’s skill and personality, excerpts from four services. His neutral, almost positive attitude from being driven home by Noya and Asahi again tonight after another pleasantly uneventful service fills out his story and the way he tells it.

Yaku lands his character on the ground from the cliff they just wingsuited off to escape a band of enemies. “Dare I say you’re enjoying it?” He puts the suit away and pulls out a compound bow.

Kenma hums, surveying the area in his rifle scope. “The job? It’s…” He lowers his gun. “I’m good at it. My manager has told me more than once. And I think my coworkers like me enough.”

“You like them, right?” Lev has taken tips from previous games and is brandishing a pointed shovel as his weapon.

Next to Kenma on their floor, Tendou’s mouth twitches into part smile, part snarl. “All but the one,” he says. His character wears brass knuckles and carries a flamethrower. “Where to, Commander?”

Yaku mutters something under his breath at Tendou’s teasing, not loud enough for them to discern through the headsets and possibly in Russian. “Northeast, to the resistance camp. Who’s the one?”

“The big one,” Tendou says as they start running.

“My executive chef.” Kenma’s cheek feels weird and he rubs at it with his fingertips. “Kuroo Tetsurou.” He shifts the way he’s sitting.

“What did he do?” Yaku asks.

Kenma opens his mouth, but Tendou says, “Allow me. He’s a jackass with wandering eyes and hands.”

Lev’s character runs into a tree. Kenma imagines the actual Lev and Yaku looking at each other instead of their screens. “ _Ushi vyanut_ ,” Lev groans.

“What’s that one?”

“My ears are wilting,” Yaku tells them. “He says it all the time when I’m scolding him.”

“But this time it means I’m appalled,” Lev says.

“Are you okay, Kenma?” Through the headsets, Kenma can hear the pity starting to come through Yaku’s voice.

“He’s backed off since Monday,” he explains. “I scolded _him_ , actually.”

Yaku pauses before saying, “Okay, hold on. Tendou, keep a watch for us.”

“Roger that, Commander.” Tendou salutes the screen with a grin.

Kenma sighs and puts down his controller. He looks at his hands, and for a split second it feels like his gloves are still on. He wiggles his fingers.

“So this happened days ago? That he touched you?” Yaku asks.

“Monday night,” Kenma admits. Now that he knows what Yaku is going to question him on, he feels ridiculous, sitting here still in his work button-up.

“And you didn’t quit,” Yaku says.

Kenma pulls his knees up to his chest. “Today and yesterday, he didn’t do anything. Something I said…” He sighs again. “I keep going back and forth. The first time I saw him—” the way the words come out makes his cheeks heat up and he shakes his head, “he came in drunk for prep. Some of the things he says and does make me uncomfortable, but he isn’t that way constantly. There’s something that…” He shrugs. “I don’t know. Something happened, or there’s something about him, and the chefs are all loyal to him. Everyone there is, even Hinata and Noya after going through the same thing I am.”

“Have you thought to ask them?” Yaku says.

Kenma looks at the screen, at their characters all standing there, Lev’s shovel planted in the ground by his feet. He looks over at Tendou, and Tendou gives him a tilt of the head. “I’ve asked Ennoshita before,” he says. “He can’t tell me exactly. I don’t know why. Who knows if they know, either.”

“Not you if you don’t ask,” Lev says. Kenma can hear him yelp when Yaku thwacks the back of his head.

Yaku sighs. “Does this guy have any good traits?” he asks sarcastically.

Kenma looks sideways at nothing. “I’m told he’s an incredible chef.”

“You’re _told_?” Lev sounds nonplussed. “Haven’t you seen him cook?”

“Well, the executive chef is more than just a chef. He runs the kitchen, and he built the restaurant from the ground on a dream. He has three stars; he has to have a lot of skill and experience—” He stops. Why is he defending Kuroo?

Yaku snorts. “Anything else, since the chef doesn’t cook?” Lev giggles.

“He’s hot,” Tendou points out. Kenma doesn’t understand his angle.

“Wait, what’s his name again?” Lev asks. “I wanna look him up.” He gets another smack from Yaku and whines. “Suke, I just want to know if it’s true.”

“You don’t trust my judgement?” Tendou says. “Have you seen Waka?” He aims his flamethrower at Lev’s character. Lev steps behind Yaku.

“He’s—” Kenma cuts off, not sure what he was going to say, if the word _handsome_ was going to come out or not. He looks down and says, too quietly, “He’s dedicated. And passionate.”

Tendou glances at him.

Yaku sighs again, heavily. “Oh. I get it. You know, dude, you’ve never been good at telling the whole thing.”

Kenma looks at his monitor where Yaku’s character is turned towards him, bow over his shoulder. “What do you mean?”

“You’ve always been,” he takes a breath, “not very deft. With how you feel about things.”

Kenma frowns. He puts his chin on his knees. “Mm.” He catches Tendou looking at him, and Tendou just looks back at the screen, putting a hand on the back of his neck.

Over the headsets, Lev says a quiet, “ _Ohhh._ ”

For whatever reason, Kuroo’s voice plays over in Kenma’s head: _What does he know that I don’t?_ He pushes it away.

“Just tough it out,” Yaku says like he’s decided on something.

Kenma hunches his shoulders up. “I don’t know why that’s not the advice I was expecting.”

“Like you said, Hinata and Noya did it. And he’s backed off as it is.”

“And either way, you’re killing the job,” Tendou says.

“And everyone has something. We’re good guys with bad traits, too,” Lev says. “Just put the water under the bridge and burn it.”

“You’re mixing English idioms again, Lev,” Kenma mutters. If there is one thing he can count on, it’s the support of his friends, regardless of what he tells them or is thinking. And Yaku is one of the most rational, pragmatic people he knows, even since high school. If he says to stay, then it can’t be a bad decision. Right?

“Look, I mean—” Yaku starts, but Tendou interrupts saying they had better get moving to the camp because someone’s coming from the south. Kenma picks up his controller and the four of them start running. “I’m proud of you for sticking through it,” Yaku says. “I can’t imagine it was easy. This guy just seems like a mess—like he’s either got a chip on his shoulder or something on his back that he’s carrying around. What’s his damage?”

The next words come out before Kenma thinks about them. “I want him to be better.” He swallows and adds, “For the restaurant.”

On the other end, kilometers away in another city, Yaku laughs aloud. “And you think you can do something about it?”

_Because you seem like you can—_

Kenma decides that on his watch, Yaku and Ennoshita will never meet.

He means it as a dismissal, but maybe it comes off differently: “I don’t know.”

“We’ve known you for a long time,” Yaku says. “You work hard even when you don’t want to. I know you’re not going to give up so easily.”

“So you’re gonna stay?” Lev asks.

Kenma shrugs again.

“By the way, this place _pays_ mega,” Tendou says.

Yaku: “Like, how mega?”

“Like twice as much as me.”

A moment of silence on the chat, letting the two of them digest what Tendou just said, waiting for Kenma to comment. Their characters keep running together, approaching the camp.

“So you’re gonna stay,” Lev eventually says again.

The game goes to a cutscene.

* * *

**HC: Top 2 favorite co-op/multi games by team member:**

**Kenma - Far Cry 5 | Animal Crossing**

**Yaku - Call of Duty: Warzone | A Way Out**

**Lev - Keep Talking and Nobody Explodes | Minecraft**

**Tendou - GTA 5 | Phasmophobia**

**Ushiwaka - Diablo 3 | Animal Crossing**


	9. i'm writing to tell you something you already know.

The window in Kuroo’s bedroom has always let in just the right amount of light—enough to wash in rays over his skin and let dust motes flicker around his face, golden speckles floating above messy black hair, but not too much as to take his color away, to be harsh in their eyes in the late morning. The corners at the sill need to be dusted, but Kei can take care of that later.

With his glasses off, Kuroo is slightly a blur, but he can see Kuroo’s smile in front of him on the pillows nonetheless. He brings his hand up to Kuroo’s face, brushing his fingertips at the sides of his hair and his thumb against the corner of Kuroo’s lips. “Thursday.”

“I should go out,” Kuroo says, voice chesty and low from sleep, “but I don’t feel like it.”

He never feels like it.

The covers have slipped down from Kuroo’s upper third. His body, naturally lean like Kei’s but broader and more solid, is visible from his lower ribs upward. Kei watches the muscles in his shoulder move under his skin as he adjusts his arm, toned from years of working with his hands.

Kei thinks of offering to go out on his own, run by the grocery store and anywhere else Kuroo needs, but he doesn’t want to today.

“We can stay here,” he says.

He runs his nails through the soft hair behind Kuroo’s ear. Under the covers, his leg is draped over Kuroo’s. Kuroo’s fingers tap at the sheets between them.

Kei leans forward, very close, but pauses there. A tilt of his chin brushes their mouths together, a feathery graze of their lips against each other, before he bites gently on Kuroo’s lower lip and kisses him softly.

Kuroo laughs. “When I agreed to kissing back then, I didn’t mean all this mushy stuff.” He brings his arm up behind his head and rolls to his back. The same smile.

Kei’s hand slips away from his face.

He sits up. The covers fall to his waist as he turns away to the edge of the bed, cheeks hot with embarrassment. He reaches to Kuroo’s nightstand and puts on his glasses. “I remember now. My mistake.”

Kuroo hums behind him.

“What do you want for breakfast?”

“What do I have?”

Kei sighs. “I’ll go look.”

He finds his pants, pulls them on, and walks out to the kitchen.

For a chef—for anyone—Kuroo’s kitchen is barren: few pots or pans, a small and inexpensive knife block, barely enough dishes for a table of four. It’s an open space with the open concept of Kuroo’s house, but there is nothing here to see. Sterile and empty.

In the refrigerator: four eggs, a red pepper, milk, miscellaneous half-empty condiments, beer. In the pantry: a partial loaf of bread, an open bag of rice, a box of tangerines, another of potatoes, dried herbs, crystallized honey, staple items. On the counter: two apples.

He finds a pan and drips it with olive oil. Potatoes get washed, peeled, and sliced into near-transparent discs, the pepper into slivers, and both join in the pan. The eggs get placed into the bowl he’ll use to beat them in once he’s finished softening and browning the vegetables. He sets the apples on the island to peel and cut.

As he dusts the vegetables with sage and rosemary, turning the stove to medium heat, Kuroo comes out from the bedroom in a pair of joggers.

“Where’d you learn to cook so well, huh?” He comes to stand next to Kei, looking down at the pan.

“You’re getting Basque tortilla,” Kei says. “And an apple. You’re running out of food.”

“I said a shitty thing in there, didn’t I,” Kuroo says.

“This would be better if you had an onion.”

“You’re a pretty good kisser, anyway.”

Kei looks at him. “Thanks. I guess.”

Kuroo takes his chin and kisses him deeply. He still tastes like boxed pinot noir from three-thirty this morning when they arrived back from the restaurant after service.

When they stop, Kei turns away again, pushing up his glasses. He takes a breath and says, “You’ve been strange during service the past two days.”

Kuroo lifts a brow at him. “What makes you say that?”

Kei sighs. “You know what I’m talking about, Tetsurou.”

“Illuminate it for me.”

Kei looks sideways at him. “Since Monday night. Since what happened in the hallway between you and Kenma.” He looks at the pan.

Kuroo leans back from him, then moves toward the island, facing away.

“You didn’t have to do what you did,” Kei says.

“We’re really on this, Kei?”

“I’m mentioning it because you’ve never had this kind of problem after you’ve done something stupid.”

“What kind of problem would that be?”

Kei closes his eyes. Whether they’re at the restaurant or here, Kuroo is work. “The past attempts, Hinata—usually everyone is easy,” he says. “Shibayama tried to say something once but you scared him into submission anyway and he ran, too. Nishinoya wasn’t even the same thing; we needed him. But of the servers, nobody else has ever made you react like this.”

“This isn’t something you ought to be bringing up with me,” Kuroo says.

He can hear that Kuroo is facing him, but he keeps his back turned. He stares into the pan, waiting patiently for the oil to begin to simmer. “Did you even apologize to him?”

“What?”

“Why is it that when we’re here, your attitude is this way. You make this shift. You make that smile.” He blinks at tiny tendrils of steam rising. “But now, when we get back there, when _he’s_ there, you’re quiet lately. When he’s around.”

Kuroo says, “I’m going back to the bedroom.”

“You feel bad, don’t you?”

In the pause, Kei turns around. He looks at Kuroo standing there in the middle of the floor. The light through the window casts dilute shadows on half of his body. His lower abdomen is just slightly soft, a new part of him that only started to appear a few months ago from the drinking, that Kei has run his hands over more times than he can count. He could look at Kuroo forever. He has been for years.

“You don’t regret it,” he says, “but you feel bad. Because of what he said to you.”

Kuroo squints at him. “What’s wrong with you this morning?”

Kei sighs again. “He’s what you wanted,” he murmurs. “He returned. And soon, things are going to change.”

“I’m sorry—I can’t speak mumbling. You know to speak loud, clear, and concise.”

Kei rolls his eyes. “Oh, sure. Yes, Chef.” He picks up the knife he was using and salutes with it, then lands a look on Kuroo. “Come on, Tetsu. Seriously.”

Kuroo’s face darkens. “Enough with that.”

“What? Am I holding the knife wrong, Tetsu?”

“Stop it, Kei.”

Kei lowers his hands to his sides. Behind him, the pan sizzles softly. “You know, you’ve never commented when I take my glasses off.”

The anger on Kuroo’s face twists into confusion. “What? They’re your glasses.”

“Why won’t you let me call you Tetsu?”

“Because he doesn’t exist anymore!”

Kuroo’s voice, trained to project, rings in the empty house. His arm comes down from where he threw it out to the side. Kei watches him breathe, watches his hand turn into a fist and hide in his pocket. The other one pushes at the back of his hair—never the front. He looks at the floor.

“What are you going to do about Kenma?” Kei asks.

Kuroo doesn’t move save for a shake of the head. “I don’t know.”

Kei narrows his eyes. “You know what, Kuroo? You…”

But he stops. He lets his voice die out because nothing he can say will make a difference. It isn’t as though they haven’t argued like this before—always about a different topic, always a façade masking over the same thing that Kuroo doesn’t bring up.

Kei doesn’t know what will happen now that Kenma has entered his life.

“Okay,” he says. He exhales. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have pushed.”

Kuroo eyes him. “You shouldn’t have. You’re aware of the toll this business takes on a person’s life.”

Kei just picks up one of the apples and brings the knife edge to it. “You think I don’t know that?”

He speaks so seldomly to his mother, hardly three times a year, that he barely knows how to anymore. Akiteru has a daughter he has never met.

All he has left is the restaurant. All he has is Kuroo.

“Then you know what not to say to me,” Kuroo says.

Kei says evenly as he peels the apple, “Get over it, Tetsurou.”

Kuroo heaves a sigh, rubbing his forehead. “You have such an attitude.”

“That’s funny coming from you.” He _is_ holding the knife wrong. He’s gripping it way too tightly.

Kuroo laughs. “You are so lucky that you’re a brilliant chef and good in bed. If you—”

The knife slips just in time for Kei to save himself from whatever Kuroo was about to say. It slices into two of his fingers. Blood begins to well in a thin red line.

Kuroo’s expression breaks into astonishment, then worry. “Shit. Kei, Jesus.”

Kei looks at his hand, still holding the apple. “Get the gauze.”

“What gauze? Where?”

Kei rolls his eyes again. “You have gauze under your bathroom sink.”

Kuroo goes immediately. Kei can hear him opening cabinets, rummaging around, as he stands there watching the blood drip from the flesh between his first and second knuckles. It stings, but not as bad as it could have. He puts the knife and the apple down.

Kuroo comes back with the roll of self-adherent gauze and a pair of scissors. “Come here. Give me your hand.” Kei puts his arm out and Kuroo takes his fingers gently. He looks at the cut first, bringing his face close. “It’s not very deep, I don’t think. Jesus, my heart is racing.” He finds a paper towel and wipes around the cut, then unrolls the gauze and starts wrapping Kei’s fingers individually. Kei keeps his hand raised, his fingers spread, his eyes on Kuroo’s face.

When Kuroo is done, he puts everything on the island. He turns back and holds Kei’s hand, brushing a thumb over the gauze padding. “I’m an ass.”

“Yeah. You are,” Kei says.

“I argue too much.” He kisses the tips of Kei’s fingers.

“Yeah. You do.” Behind Kei, the pan is still sizzling. He wonders if the potatoes are burning on the bottom.

“Let me make it up to you.” He kisses the inside of Kei’s wrist.

Kei watches Kuroo move up his arm to his neck. His bangs tickle his skin, a light contrast to the press of lips and tongue. Kei never asks for anything, but this is what Kuroo always gives.

“Let me turn the stove off,” Kei murmurs. Kuroo leans back enough to let him turn around and twist the knob, move the pan to a cold burner. He comes back and brings his bandaged hand up to touch the back of Kuroo’s hair—never the front—and thread the strands between his fingertips.

Kuroo says, “Are you going to kiss me or what? You’re pretty good at it.”

So Kei wraps his arm around Kuroo’s shoulders and puts the other hand on his chest, feeling his skin. For all he drinks, stresses, and doesn’t sleep well at all, Kuroo’s skin and body and face have always been worth looking at, all these years.

He closes his eyes. “Okay, Tetsurou. Okay.”

…

From the nightstand in his own normal apartment with a full kitchen of dishes he rarely uses, full living space he rarely sits in, and full bedroom that he sleeps in only half of the time, Kei pulls out the letter he wrote ten months ago, back when they had just received their third star. When Kuroo got _his_ third star.

A full page of small, neat handwriting. Everything he needs to say, and at the end, the words: _We did it_. The letter he imagines first that he gave to Kuroo after the party they held in the restaurant, where he and Kuroo and Bokuto cooked a simple, no-star, family-style meal for everybody, and Noya brought cheap champagne and cheaper bottled water, and Akaashi and Ennoshita pushed together tables and got rid of the tablecloths for the night so they could spill whatever they wanted, and Yachi arrived slightly overdressed and already tearing up, and Kiyoko was dropped off by her husband who went with her beforehand to get a box of store-bought cookies for dessert, and Terushima recounted memories of the time they’d spent together so far, and Hinata cried and got red in the cheeks from the champagne and Kageyama put his arm around his back, and Iwaizumi made a rare joke and Noya nearly fell out of his chair with shock and hysterical laughter and an even greater lack of inhibition, and Kuroo was smiling the entire time— _actually_ smiling, despite what Kei knew it was hiding, and Kei felt happier than he had in longer than he can remember.

And when the rest all went home, and it was just him and Kuroo left, he imagines that he pulled out this letter, handed it to Kuroo, and said whatever words happened to come to mind at that point.

And then he imagines that Kuroo handed it back, or that he came in early the next day to their new three-star restaurant and the letter was sitting there on one of the tables, left behind overnight and forgotten.

And then, every time, as he folds it closed and puts it back in his nightstand, he remembers that he never gave Kuroo the letter at all.

* * *

**HC: Kuroo’s musty smell is strongest in the morning when Kei wakes up next to him. It concentrates at the crook of his neck where Kei likes to bury his face. Sometimes Kei likens it to worn suede, sometimes to a light Danish rye, usually just the smell of familiar skin. He has sensory memories of it frequently—home alone, sometimes at the restaurant, often in his dreams.**

**His niece is two and a half years old. Her name is Hikari, and that’s all he knows.**


	10. c’était le coup de foudre. quand le vin est tiré, il faut le boire.

“But me or Bokuto with our hair down would look like completely different people,” Yuuji says. “The only one of us who can pull both off is Noya.”

Kenma smiles a little listening to the chefs’ banter in the kitchen. Akaashi is working on inventory, making calls from his sealed-off office, so Hinata took his usual front doors and windows, and Kenma was generously gifted the job of cleaning the pass. Yuuji’s voice is clear and positive, a little higher pitched than when they’re talking alone, and Bokuto laughs loudly often. Kageyama and Iwaizumi chime in once in a while; Tsukishima, two of his fingers bandaged from an accident that Kenma must not have seen, keeps to himself.

And from where Kenma is observing, pulling continuous data on the dynamic of everything here, Kuroo hardly looks up from his work at all. Part of Kenma is relieved that he can work without worrying about it—that he doesn’t have to feel that claw on him, to predict the next time Kuroo is going to say or do something. But another part of him is worrying about different things now. Less about himself, and more about…

If he’s won or not, he doesn’t care much to wonder anymore. Past four p.m., Friday prep, they haven’t met eyes once.

Yaku’s suggestion sits in the back of his mind, waiting.

“You got that right,” Noya calls over from his wine counter. “I’m thinking of either growing it out or shaving the sides. What do you think?”

“Grow out one side and shave the other,” Yuuji calls back.

Kenma watches Noya’s sharp brows go down in thought.

“Don’t give him ideas,” Iwaizumi mutters. He shakes his head at the salmon he’s fileting.

“Sometimes Kageyama puts his bangs up in a clip.” Hinata appears behind Kenma at the pass. He gives a thumbs up and grins at him. “It’s so shiny I can hear it, like _shiiing_.”

Kenma gives him a nod of thanks.

While Bokuto is busy pointing his knife at Kageyama, demanding proof, Hinata says, “Let’s grab the silverware?”

“Yeah.”

Hinata laughs at the chefs as they walk past—Bokuto waving around the thirty-five thousand yen of his blade and Kageyama holding up a whisk dripping batter for his Viennese shortbread, a blush scratching at his upper cheeks. “If we can get Ennoshita-san’s help, we can finish in probably thirty minutes,” Hinata says. He leads Kenma into the storage room and goes for the flatware, pulling it from its shelf.

“I have a question,” Kenma says.

Hinata turns around with the basket of utensils. “Yeah?”

“Why did you stay?”

Hinata blinks big eyes at him. “What do you mean?”

Kenma looks at one of his gloves, runs a fingertip around his wrist. “In the beginning, why didn’t you quit? When Kuroo does the things he does.”

Hinata’s cheeks turn pink and he looks away. “Oh, that.” He swallows.

Kenma suddenly feels terrible for asking at all. What Kuroo has done hasn’t affected him that much—it’s more of an annoyance and against his morals than anything—but that doesn’t mean it was the same for Hinata. “I’m sorry if I shouldn’t have asked.”

Hinata flashes a smile at him again. “No, it’s okay. It’s been a long time anyway. Well.” He goes to the counter and puts the basket down, then looks back at Kenma. “He stops eventually.” Kenma doesn’t respond, so Hinata says, “Really, he does. He used to, um, touch my shoulders and my back and stuff. Sometimes my—” He clears his throat. “And he likes whispering near your ear, right?”

Kenma nods. He understands too well, even the part Hinata didn’t say.

“Yeah,” Hinata says. “He’ll stop—he did with me. He just sometimes ruffles my hair now, but a lot of people do that and I don’t mind. Besides.” He blinks at Kenma again. His eyes are huge and twinkly with the light hitting them, his hair vividly orange. All at once, regardless of his age, Kenma is jealous of his youth. “I think he’s stopped for you, hasn’t he?” Hinata says.

Kenma looks at the wall and sighs. “I don’t know.”

Hinata smiles a little. “Well, I stayed because I’ve always wanted to run a nice restaurant. I want to be Akaashi-san one day, you know? I’m gonna study restaurant management.”

Kenma looks at him standing proudly there, his solid posture and confident shoulders, an exuberance that would tire Kenma out just trying. Hinata has plans and the emotional means to see them through. “Wow, and you already have this job?”

Hinata beams. “Right? I’m really lucky. Like, I _had_ to stick it out because it’s such an amazing opportunity for me. I couldn’t believe it when I got hired. I felt like I couldn’t afford to lose it.”

Kenma understands that too, in maybe a different, more literal way. Now that they know what he makes working here, Yaku and Lev would _really_ kill him if he left.

“So, Chef Kuroo was…” Hinata blushes again. “Well, I just got used to it. I don’t think he means anything by it. At least, he didn’t with me.”

_That doesn’t matter_ , Kenma thinks. Kuroo’s intentions don’t make up for his actions. No excuse would be good enough in Kenma’s mind. Maybe Hinata is just very forgiving. And yet, he’s also very happy.

“I can see what you’re thinking.”

Kenma looks at his coworker again. Hinata’s smile is softer, more gentle on his face, his brows up a bit in the middle.

“I’m young, I know,” he says. “When I’m older like Akaashi-san, I’ll be cool and confident. Or like you.” His eyes widen again. “When you stood up to Chef—that was really cool. One day I’ll be like that.” His hand turns into a fist at his side.

Kenma reigns in a smile. Hinata is spunky and tenacious—not just forgiving, but optimistic. Naive to think that the world gets better as you age.

In many ways, they are two very different people, including working here. Hinata needed _this_ job, and stayed for that reason. It isn’t what Kenma needed to hear, and it doesn’t help, but at least he can understand it fully.

“Thanks, Hinata.”

“Sure!” He starts to turn back to the counter, but stops. “Plus, I mean…” He tilts his head. “It feels good working here. If that makes sense. Aside from my career path and everything, it’s a really cool job as it is.” He laughs like he’s embarrassed, but Kenma isn’t judging. He’s listening. “I haven’t had very many jobs,” Hinata says, “but I feel like I’ve done more here than anywhere else before. Right away, even though Chef was like that, I felt like I belonged in this. Like Tiger’s Eye is my place, at least for now.”

Kenma’s mind flashes again to his first night, nearly a week ago now. Ennoshita saying, _It’s something you have to experience being here yourself. With him._

“And Kuroo?” he asks. His voice feels dry.

Hinata pauses for a moment, then nods once. “It’s not like I’ve worked in other restaurants before, but I just feel like things are different here. Because of everyone, yeah, but I think it wouldn’t work that way if it weren’t for Chef.”

“What do you mean?” Dry, and desperate.

Hinata’s shoulders shrug up. “I think that, after everything, he’s the only executive chef who could have brought us all here together.”

Kenma’s hands are heavy at his sides.

Hinata blushes again and rubs his neck. “Ah—sorry if I’m being too sentimental. I—I know what you’re going through, and I just really think he wants you to stay. And if anyone can get through it, it’s you.” He turns for the basket.

Kenma doesn’t hear the last part of what he said. He gets caught on those words. “He wants me to stay,” he echoes.

Hinata looks sideways at him. “It seems like it, doesn’t it?” He picks up the basket of flatware again, hoisting it into his gloved hands. He turns to Kenma and says, “It took him weeks to stop with me because I was too afraid to say anything. And if I had, he would have fired me.”

All Kenma can think of is what Bokuto said in the hallway, what he wouldn’t explain to Kenma outside after service was over: _Not what I expected, kid. Not at all._

His mind goes blank.

This place has never offered information to him. Hinata is the most he’s ever gotten, and he still doesn’t understand as much as he wants to. He needs more. He’ll have to try harder.

Ennoshita’s form appears in the doorway, hand on the wall. “You know the house doesn’t clean itself, ri—” He pauses, seeing them there. Kenma turns his body on a tight hinge to face him. Ennoshita blinks. “Oh.” He nods once.

“Sorry, Ennoshita-san,” Hinata says. He lifts the basket. “We’re coming.”

Ennoshita shakes his head. “It’s all right.” He looks at Kenma, then tilts his head back toward the house. “Come on, let’s get going.”

For once, Kenma is thankful for Ennoshita’s reaction. He may be persistent, but he isn’t heartless, and he’s definitely not stupid. Kenma bows his head.

“I’m sure Noya will have a second to talk later,” Ennoshita says.

Kenma looks back up at him.

Ennoshita tilts his head again, smiling at little. “I bet with the three of us, we can get those done in half an hour. What do you think, Hinata?”

“They’re specific to certain types,” Noya tells him.

Kenma stands at his counter, having offered to clean it for him for a chance to talk, and Noya, shining his glasses with his silk cloth, has regaled him about any and all things wine.

“This one,” he holds up a shorter, wider glass than all the rest, a hollow sphere with its highest quarter cut off, “is for burgundy alone—any other reds or whites would be a sin. Where, say, a cabernet glass,” he motions to one, “moderates acidity by directing the wine to the center of the tongue, the burgundy glass enhances it, and brings out the intensity of a full-bodied wine.” He places the glass down with a delicate _clink_ unfit for his personality type. “Zinfandel, Bordeaux; Chablis, sauvignon blanc. We have a glass for every wine on this wall.” He makes a grand gesture up at his precious wall of wines, then puts his hand on his hip with a cocky smile. “And a shitload of money in my little corner.”

Kenma laughs once. “I can imagine.”

Noya points up at specific bottles. “That bottle of nineteen ninety-five Champagne Krug Clos d’Ambonnay costs four hundred twenty-eight thousand. That eighteen-eleven Chateau d’Yquem, Semillon and sauvignon blanc, is twelve million. The day somebody orders it and I get to provide that service is the day I can die peacefully.”

A part of Kenma’s brain starts to wonder how much money it takes to even have these wines available in the restaurant, and it’s the same amount of money that allows servers to be paid three thousand an hour, and he has to stop thinking about it before it hurts too much. “Oh.”

Noya laughs. “So what’s up? It seems like the lynx is doing well here. You’re riding home with us tonight, right?”

Kenma wants to ask Noya not to call him that, but Noya has already told Asahi about it and he thought it was really cool— _Fitting for you, Kenma-san_ —so he doesn’t bother. “Yeah, thanks. I actually wanted to ask you something.”

Noya lifts a brow and picks up another glass—Alsace, if Kenma remembers correctly. “Shoot.”

Kenma leans onto his arms on the counter. “Why did you stay here back when you were hired?”

“Besides making eight figures a year? Good question.” He laughs again, and Kenma can’t really argue. But then he sighs and asks, “Because of Kuroo, you mean?”

Kenma nods.

Noya shrugs. “I mean, even master sommeliers need jobs, so there was that. As far as anything else…” He shakes his head. “I don’t know. It’s not anything obvious. I guess it’s more of a feeling—like he draws out your full potential.” He waves another glass nonchalantly. “Which makes no sense,” he says, “because a sommelier and a chef are not the same. But I guess that’s how it is with him regardless of your job.”

Kenma thinks of Hinata and Ennoshita. Sommelier, career-seeker, server—they’re all the same.

“You know how you pour wine a certain way,” Noya says. He holds the glass up in front of them and it catches golden light from the fixtures above the tables, a yellow flare around the circumference and down through the stem. “And you spin it in the glass. You aerate it to bring out all the possible scents and flavors and notions about the taste, texture, everything.”

Kenma nods slowly. “Right.”

“It’s like that. Kuroo is the right technique and I was a bunch of fermented grape juice at the ready.”

Kenma frowns. “I’m not sure I understand.”

“Like, not about wine, but about being in the business of fine cuisine, and…” Noya snorts. “Yeah, it’s okay. I don’t know if any of us really get it. But that’s what it was to me.” He pauses, brows going down in his thinking face again. “It’s that, as much of an asshole as he can be, and as difficult as it is sometimes to work under his rule, you feel like you belong here.”

“Ennoshita said something like that.” Kenma sighs and leans further onto the counter. “And Hinata.”

“Sure. We’ve all felt it at one point or another.” He looks at Kenma. Under the lights, his brown eyes flash amber. “And we’re all here.”

Kenma hums. Even though he’s a literature graduate, the metaphor is still going over his head. If it’s something he has to experience to understand, then has that happened yet for him? He just says, “Okay. Thank you.”

Noya claps his shoulder. “Sounds like I was a big help.”

“I’ll go back to Ennoshita.” He stands and picks up the cleaner he used on the countertop, turns, and starts away.

“Kenma.”

Kenma turns back around, waiting for the big, revelatory final line.

Noya points to his counter. “Can you wipe that spot again? You put your arms on it.”

Job mode and emotional detective mode combine fluidly into one. He works on autopilot—his plastic server’s smile and voice and the script he’s had memorized from night one—only coming out of it to give orders to the kitchen and answer questions from the customers. With Kuroo not touching him, figuratively and literally, he has time to think.

Two hours into service, he realizes why Hinata and Noya weren’t enough. To fully understand, he needs someone who has been here from the start—who can take Ennoshita’s perspective as someone who hasn’t experienced Kuroo’s harassment in the same way, but still go further than that as someone with a different position in the restaurant. He needs somebody who works in the kitchen. He needs a chef.

And the objective facts, no embellishment. The reason everyone who’s here is here, and, if he can get it, the reason Kuroo is the way he is.

Kenma approaches the pass for his next platter and looks into the kitchen.

Bokuto has known Kuroo for too long, and is guaranteed to be emotionally invested.

Yuuji has a big heart and attitude. Whether he’s sentimental or not, he’s bound to have an opinion regardless.

For some reason, Kenma gets the idea that Kageyama has more loyalty and emotion than he lets on.

And Tsukishima might be the least objective of them all when it comes to Kuroo.

“Can I get Hajime for the next table, please.” Akaashi’s even voice comes from next to Kenma at the pass.

Tsukishima turns from where he’s plating appetizers and puts a hand up, hailing Iwaizumi with a clear, “Hajime.”

Iwaizumi places down the pan and spoon he was using to sear a foie gras entrée. He unties the apron at his waist as he walks around the stations to leave the kitchen. “A minute forty on the left pan and three on the right, Chef. Give or take eight seconds.”

Kenma watches Kuroo move to take over the work, slotting into Iwaizumi’s place with no hesitation.

Iwaizumi adjusts his collar and straightens his shoulders. He meets Akaashi around the open wall and they move into the house.

“Service.”

Kenma looks back at the pass. Tsukishima hands him his final appetizer for his table of six—the largest party he’s handled so far, and yet nothing different at all aside from more visits from Noya for their varied preferences in wine. He takes the platter, spinning it in his palm until it feels perfectly weighted at a zero angle.

As he walks to his table, he glances toward the front doors at Akaashi and Iwaizumi bowing to three customers who Kenma knows, from their pre-service debriefing, solely speak French.

The only viable option should have seemed like the most obvious one from the start.

At the next point that he takes a glance at the platinum clock, service is only an hour out from closing. Hinata and Ennoshita are both seating their final tables, and Kenma is checking up on his last few. He pours more wine for a table of two, clears entrées from another and brings the dishes to the back of the kitchen. The pile of them, stacked by type on a metal table, is both appalling and unsurprising, and he wonders why they can’t spare an extra twelve hundred an hour for a busboy, but then he remembers that they can’t even hire a fourth server, much less somebody who stays in the kitchen near Kuroo the entire night. As it is, Kuroo doesn’t hire very many people anyway. Eleven of them now, and a full staff would only add one more to total twelve, but there is never a table uncovered, and no chef in the kitchen stops moving for an instant from the moment the doors open to the moment they close.

_We stay in motion—we flow without stopping, each part contributing to the whole._

Yeah, fine.

_Remember why you’re here. Don’t let me down._

Kenma sighs.

With his tables checked on and new seating closed for the night, he can take a few minutes to relax while Kageyama is preparing his gorgeous desserts. He walks back into the hallway, angling into the pantry but only leaning against the threshold. He’s tempted to just walk into cold storage for ten seconds and stand there. But why would he get the chance?

“Kenma.”

He hears the voice before anybody comes around the corner from the kitchen, but he wouldn’t mistake it for anyone else. It’s the first time Kuroo has called him by his given name.

He pushes off from the wall and stands, tense, ready to say something or dodge another of Kuroo’s attacks if he needs to.

But when Kuroo’s form appears around the wall, Kenma’s muscles give way. He hasn’t looked Kuroo face-on like this in three days. Unbelievably, the words he has to stop himself from saying are _What’s wrong?_

Kuroo looks tired, worse than usual, hair messier than usual. Kenma might have wondered if he was wasted if he didn’t know that Kuroo has been sober the whole night. The expression he wears on the visible three-quarters of his face—the way his mouth sits in a line and his dark eye, partially lidded, levels at Kenma without any sharpness at all—betrays something that Kenma doesn’t quite understand. It would be wrong to use a term so strong, but what comes to his mind first is misery.

Suddenly, he has an idea, if not a hope, of what is about to happen. He braces himself for an apology he never expected to come.

“Yes, Chef?”

Kuroo’s lips part just the slightest. For a brief moment, they’re standing there looking at each other—Kuroo staring at him in the dim, Kenma waiting for anything to come out of his lungs. Then, as it did in this same hallway on his first night here, Kuroo’s chin lowers and his gaze slides away, the expression melting off into something vapid and flat. “Kageyama is about to bring up one of your tables.”

Something in Kenma’s chest fragments apart. He says, “Okay.”

Kuroo’s face turns first, then his shoulders, and the rest of him follows out of Kenma’s sight back to the kitchen.

Kenma looks at where he was standing. He brings a hand up and tucks his hair behind his ear, the smooth silk of his glove grazing against his cheek. He closes his eyes, opens them again. He goes back out to find his platter.

Kuroo doesn’t try again. By the time they’ve cleaned the floors and the tables, and Ennoshita has pulled all the tablecloths up and taken them to the washer, and Hinata has turned off all the light fixtures and replaced the pantry items, and Kenma has cleaned the pass and the doors and Noya’s counter again for good measure, and when it’s time enough for everyone in the house to take advantage of their extra hour and go home, Kuroo has gone into Akaashi’s office and not come back out.

Kenma turns to where Noya is arranging his glasses, button-up off and tied around his waist to reveal a T-shirt that says _Aged to perfection_. “Noya-san. You can go without me tonight. Thank you.”

Noya gives him a look. “What, you gonna walk?”

He nods.

Noya looks like he’s considering arguing, but drops it. “I’m telling Asahi you went with someone else or he’ll freak out about you going alone at night.”

Kenma smiles a little. “Okay.”

“I don’t know if he’s gonna come back out until the end of the shift.” Noya tilts his chin at Akaashi’s door.

Kenma doesn’t bother saying that it isn’t the reason he’s staying behind. He looks elsewhere.

Noya puts a hand up in surrender. “You’re right—not my business.”

_Like anybody in this house could say that and mean it_. “Thanks.”

Noya waves him away.

He goes toward the kitchen where the chefs are doing their usual post-service duties. He almost leans his arms onto the pass, then remembers he just cleaned it. “Can I help with anything?”

Kageyama and Yuuji—swapped with Tsukishima because of his fingers, Kenma figures—look up from where they’re doing the dishes. Bokuto laughs as he slings a garbage bag over his shoulder. “You’re one of a kind, kid.”

“It’ll be faster with more hands,” Kenma offers.

Yuuji starts to say, “We’re not going to ask you to—”

“You can do the counters and stainless steel,” Tsukishima says.

Kenma looks and him and bows his head. “Yes, Chef.”

He works around them, listening to them talk, moving out of the way for Kageyama to grab pans, for Tsukishima to sweep the floor. He quickly cleans the door of one of the ovens for Iwaizumi to kneel down and inspect the inside. Kenma knows the least about him, but he’s solid and strong, wears an intense expression on his face constantly, brows down in concentration, and he’s fairly taciturn compared to most of the others. Kenma has never spoken to him directly before, and flashing back to the honey incident on night one doesn’t help the nerves, even when the worst of it wasn’t Iwaizumi’s fault regardless of whether Kuroo or the customer was right.

Iwaizumi is the final effort. If he has nothing for Kenma, it’ll be time to just give up.

Kenma waits, being too thorough with his cleaning, until the only people who haven’t left yet are Bokuto, Kuroo, and Akaashi all in his office, and Iwaizumi and Yuuji in the kitchen.

Sleeves rolled to his shoulders, Yuuji wipes the back of his arm over his brow and says, chuckling, “You should go home, Kenma.”

Kenma watches him close his eyes and breathe an easy sigh, the piercing glinting in the fluorescents. “I will.”

Yuuji smiles at him, but it pulls into a frown. “Do you drive?”

Kenma hums, shakes his head.

A crease forms at Yuuji’s brow, just under the pieces of hair that don’t stay back in his style. “You aren’t walking, are you? Do you live right by?”

“It’s okay,” Kenma says. “I’ve done it before.”

“Let me drive you home or something. The first train isn’t for another two hours.”

Kenma shakes his head again. “I really appreciate it.”

Yuuji opens his mouth, then sighs again, grinning. “So you’re a stubborn lunatic.” He shakes his head back. “Get home safe.”

“I will.”

Yuuji salutes before he heads toward the back door. “Night, Hajime.”

“Night,” Iwaizumi replies.

Kenma waits until he hears the sound of Yuuji’s keys, the sweep of his jacket into his hand. The closing of door number two.

In the silence, Iwaizumi finds a honing steel and begins whetting a clean carving knife. The sound of metal on metal is loud in the space, intimidating to Kenma’s implicit anxiety.

He takes a breath. “Iwaizumi-san.”

Iwaizumi doesn’t pause his sharpening when he looks up at him, the knife gliding over the honing steel with the practiced ease of someone who has been doing it for the better portion of his life. “Kozume.”

“Can I ask you something?”

Iwaizumi gives him a nod.

He shifts on his feet. Should he go with the same question as usual? Should he take a different angle? How specific should he be?

He ends up only saying, “Can you tell me about Kuroo?”

“What about him?”

Kenma looks at the floor. “I want to know about his personality.”

Iwaizumi looks at him, still sharpening the knife. “How bad has it been for you?”

Kenma blinks. Even Iwaizumi understands everything. “Not that bad,” he says, unsure if he’s lying.

A nod from the chef. “That’s good.”

“What happened ten months ago?” Kenma asks. “With the third star?”

Iwaizumi stops sharpening the carving knife, sheathes it in a block, finds a chef’s knife next and begins again. “He’s vague about it. None of us know except maybe Bokuto or Akaashi. Perhaps Tsukishima. Other than that he was fine up until that point, I don’t have anything I can tell you regarding it.”

Kenma’s shoulders droop. Another miss. He nods.

“All we know—all of us,” Iwaizumi says, looking at the knife and steel in his hands, “is that this job demands every corner of your life.”

Ennoshita’s voice plays in his head: _Didn’t Akaashi give you the whole_ top priority _speech?_

And a part of that speech, from Akaashi’s voice over the phone the night Kenma made the decision to agree to work at Tiger’s Eye: _Consider what you would have to put aside, and what you’d be willing to give up._

“Thank you for being straight up with me,” he says. “And for not asking.”

“It’s not my place to know why or why not you want to know about him.”

That says enough as it is. _And why do I?_

“Can I ask one more thing?” Kenma says.

Another nod.

“Why did you come here to work with him, and why have you stayed?”

The long, slow _shink_ of a final swipe of the honing steel rings out until Kenma can’t hear it anymore. He stands there looking at the metal reflecting in the light, then up at Iwaizumi’s face. He’s still concentrated, sharp brows drawn together in thought, but he’s softer now, the angles of his features gentler.

He says, “Because I was this.” He holds up the knife. “And he was this.” He holds up the steel. He stares at the blade of the knife, runs a fingertip along the flat of it. Kenma imagines that if he even brushed his skin against the sharp edge, he would be cut in an instant, so delicately it might not even hurt. “He honed me down to the finest point I could attain,” Iwaizumi says. “Even the smallest details never go unrecognized.”

Kenma glances in the direction of the storage room where they’ve put their platters. Since Kuroo corrected him that first night, even on such a seemingly minor point, he has never once forgotten it, and never made the mistake again. And the job is easier and better for it— _he_ is better at it.

He can only imagine how magnified that feeling is for those chosen to be in Kuroo’s kitchen with him.

“Working with him brought out what working in other restaurants never did,” Iwaizumi continues. “He wants us to be absolute, not just for his sake as the executive, but for the sake of this restaurant and all of us as we are a part of it, and as chefs in our own right. Nobody cares about our ability, our passion, and our success more than he does.” He looks directly at Kenma, the knife firmly in his hand. With beautifully accented native-like French, he says, “Under Chef Kuroo, we are a three-star _brigade de cuisine_.”

All at once, it clicks together in Kenma’s head. Where Noya’s metaphor was too abstract, Iwaizumi’s is simple. What Noya meant, what Ennoshita was getting at, what Hinata couldn’t put into words—he understands all of it now. It’s not in the specifics; not in the individual ways everyone has changed since coming here. It’s what Kuroo offers each and all of them.

_Being invited into somebody else’s dream._

Working with Kuroo makes you feel valuable.

Kenma doesn’t know what to say.

Iwaizumi lowers the knife, slides the honing steel into the knife block. “What has changed is how he goes about showing that to us. He’s always been strict, but the harshness is new. The way he is with customers.” He turns back but doesn’t meet Kenma’s eyes, maintaining his gaze on the knife in his hand. “It takes a lot from you—working in this business. The hours, the attitude it requires. The time you spend in the restaurant ends up mattering more to you than anything else, and it takes a specific kind of person to be here.” He draws in a long breath. “And it isn’t grand. When you’re in school, you’re excited and fresh, constantly learning, but once you get hired—that first job as a line cook—it digs you into the ground. It’s oppressive, stressful, and snuffs out the creativity you thought you had. You feel like a machine.”

Kenma just stands there, listening. What else can he do?

Iwaizumi turns to put the knife away, too. With his back facing Kenma, he says, “But not here.”

_Coming here made all the difference._

“Not here,” Kenma echoes, too quietly.

Iwaizumi turns back and crosses his arms, shaking his head. “From the moment you meet him, Kuroo is different. He had no reason to start his own restaurant other than a desperate need for creativity. To have chosen me— _us—_ to attain that with him…” He sighs. “Regardless of his standard, he doesn’t accept the same thing every time and he challenges us always. We learn both from and with him every day. Before the current menu iteration, we all had a hand in deciding new dishes for each cycle and season, new plating, new styles of cuisine none of us had ever tried before—something that is usually left more up to the executive chef alone—and with his help, it worked for us together.

“I can’t remember the pitch he gave me when he asked me to come here, and I don’t know if he gave it to everybody the same way. Since he handpicked us, I truly wouldn’t be surprised if he pinpointed our personalities and types as chefs and tailored our conversations based on them. What I remember is that, when he came personally to visit me at one-thirty AM at Moniwa’s, whatever he said or however he said it drew me here in an instant.”

“It was that way with everyone,” Kenma understands. It’s all very romantic, but suddenly a twinge of frustration begins to nag somewhere at the back of his mind.

Iwaizumi nods. “He only has us five chefs, but he also only has you four servers, given the positions are all filled. He knows the pressure it puts on us to work in such a small team, but still he refuses to hire anybody else because he prefers the people he chooses to be as close to him as possible. He walks with us instead of in front of us.” He finds his jacket, laid over the counter, and starts putting it on. “In this industry, to be happy, the people you work with must become the people you love.” He straightens his collar and lowers his hands. “I have better people here than anywhere else in my life, and they think the same of me. In the end, no sum of money, no amount of critique of my work, no number of outbursts at the customers—none of it could make me give up this kitchen.”

What clicked into place earlier takes hold and seals together permanently. It’s not just feeling useful, or feeling good at your job. Working with Kuroo makes you feel not only valuable, but _valued._

He was mistaken to think that anybody here could be truly objective about Kuroo.

The frustration pings up louder and comes into view. As of now, most of Kenma feels like nothing more than a toy to briefly hold Kuroo’s attention before he trades him out for the next. If it’s true that this revelation—this epiphany that everybody here has had about being with Kuroo, with Tiger’s Eye—is this…

At what point does Kuroo choose to value him, too?

In the quiet left over from Iwaizumi’s speech, Kenma says, “I understand.”

“It’ll come for you,” Iwaizumi says. “Maybe in a different way.”

Kenma looks down.

“You’re sure you’re walking?”

Kenma looks back up to see Iwaizumi’s thumb hooked at the back hallway, towards the door and the cubbies where his keys probably wait. Kenma’s body feels heavy and the last thing he wants to do is walk home, but he wouldn’t be able to stand even a ten-minute ride with Iwaizumi after that. Iwaizumi, like the other chefs here, is a good person. Somebody who has earned Kuroo’s trust, respect, and value.

Why aren’t they things Kenma can have from him? Will it come with time, with tenacity? Or is there nothing he can do to change Kuroo’s mind.

But his mind is changing, at least in some way. Since Monday night, he hasn’t messed with Kenma at all. In the dim hall earlier, Kuroo looked miserable, pitiful enough that Kenma felt something like worry for him. A man too desperate, but too afraid to say whatever it was he really wanted.

Why? What did Kenma do or what does Kuroo feel that has suddenly made the difference?

He looks at Iwaizumi and says, “I’m sure.”

“I know it doesn’t feel good right now,” Iwaizumi says, “but that’s because…” To Kenma’s surprise, Iwaizumi actually laughs, shaking his head again. He has a kind smile. “He’s not very deft. He’s more foolish than you might think from the façade he puts on.” He looks into Kenma’s eyes. “When he finally works things out, it will be better again.”

All Kenma can think to say again is, “I’m sure.”

* * *

**HC: Hajime began learning French at the age of six. He went to a language school from elementary through middle and completed a four-month immersion program when he was eleven. By thirteen, he tested native-like in writing, speaking, and reading and listening comprehension. His speech is impeccable, including suprasegmental features like nasalization and prosody, and paralinguistic features such as gesture and discourse pragmatics.**

**He enjoys French arthouse films, classical literature, and poetry. He keeps track of French politics and watches political and social commentary regularly. He has been to France six times. Visiting different cities has allowed him to taste true (from their geographic origins) Champagne, Bordeaux, Burgundy, and Sauternes wines. On various trips, he has enjoyed surfing in Biarritz and skiing in the French Alps, viewing the gothic architecture in Avignon and the impressionist art in Giverny. He has dreams of a spring holiday with a lover in the Figeac commune—staying in a bed and breakfast, walking cobbled streets and visiting the Saturday markets, seeing the Église Saint-Sauveur, and exploring the Lot and Célé valleys surrounding the city.**


	11. the same technique to deflect the attack simultaneously lands your own. use your forearm and strike quickly.

Door number one sits propped open on a wedge for easy access into cold storage while the eight of them move back and forth from the liftgate of the truck from Ohira Delivery. Kuroo and Noya are inside doing wine inventory with Akaashi.

Kenma waits on the loading ramp for Hinata to run back out from where he was bringing Kageyama an actual bouquet of pink roses for his panna cotta dish so they can carry in a box of red cabbages together. While the two of them have to team up for nearly everything—large quantities of fresh produce bought in bulk—Kenma has been awed watching Bokuto singlehandedly hoist thirty-kilo whole salmon on ice in his arms to the kitchen for him and Iwaizumi to descale and gut later; watching Iwaizumi lift two sacks of barley at once on each shoulder to take to the pantry. In a moment of astonishment, when Iwaizumi first brought out one of the bags from the truck, Kenma noticed the kanji stamped in red on the burlap: _Ushijima._ Small world. Tendou will be delighted to know.

He glances at Ennoshita and Tsukishima speaking with the deliveryman—the only person, according to Hinata, that Kuroo trusts to provide their ingredients. Rather than using a wholesaler, when deciding a menu Kuroo and Ohira himself will go to different markets around the country with Akaashi’s carefully planned budget in mind, choosing the best ingredients and making themselves known personally to vendors. Produce is local, and specialty ingredients—like Turkish honeycomb and Alaskan salmon—are ordered from abroad and collected at Ohira’s service, and trusted to be brought here to the restaurant on a strict schedule.

It runs succinctly and exactly, like everything else here, because Kuroo places value in many things and many people.

Hinata comes jogging back out, up the ramp. Kenma goes toward the box of cabbages and looks down at it. Maybe if he could lift this by himself, Kuroo would value him, too. It seems as good a reason as any.

“You okay?” Hinata asks him, head tilted.

Kenma nods at him. “Mm. I’m fine.”

“I can be spacey sometimes, too. Here.” He bends down and takes the corners of the box. “One, two—”

They lift the box up and Kenma starts walking backwards. A breeze cools his brow and flicks a strand of his hair in his eyes. He blows it away. “I never exercise this much.”

Hinata laughs. “I used to bike a lot back in high school, but now being on my feet for twelve hours every night is plenty.”

This is the first Saturday in maybe his entire life that Kenma hasn’t been sitting inside doing schoolwork or video games. The sun is out and it isn’t terribly hot. Hinata’s hair is radioactive in the light, and he grins too much for somebody hauling heavy boxes around and cutting up his hands on the carboard. Kageyama looks good with roses, and his eyes are so rich in color they almost seem blue. Every time Yuuji talks to one of them, both his piercing and his grin flash brightly, and he and Bokuto and Ennoshita keep laughing despite manual labor. And Iwaizumi is enviable in no sleeves, and Tsukishima smiled a few times, and Ohira is a genuinely nice guy. Sometimes Kenma forgets the things that have happened here at Tiger’s Eye, and he realizes in the moment that it’s only when Kuroo isn’t around.

“What do you think of the word _value_ , Hinata?”

Hinata blinks at him. “Huh?”

They step down from the loading ramp and start for the doorway. “Do you think it’s a good word for what I asked you about yesterday?”

Hinata thinks for a second, then beams. “Yeah. Perfect.”

“What does it look like to you?”

Hinata blinks at him again, tilting his head the other way, birdlike.

They make it into cold storage and set the box down on the floor. Kenma pushes his hair back from his face, but it just falls forward again. He could take posture tips from Hinata, anyway.

“Here, you mean?” Hinata looks him in the eyes.

Kenma nods.

“Well.” He sighs. “If you’re looking for words of affirmation, I don’t think they’re really his thing.”

Kenma holds back a slight blush. Regardless of his demeanor, Hinata is still observant. “I see.”

“He doesn’t really _tell_ any of us we’re doing a good job,” Hinata continues. “He’s more of an acts of service guy, I guess.” He pauses as Kageyama moves past them with more celery stalks in his arms than Kenma has seen in once place in his life. “It can be hard to tell somebody’s best communicative languages,” Hinata says quietly. “Especially if they’re the opposite of yours. I’m somebody who likes to talk a lot, but not everyone is. You figure out over time how each other work.” He blushes suddenly, his cheeks going very red. His shoulders tighten and he faces Kenma. “I don’t really know what I’m saying.”

Kenma waves his hand. “It’s okay. I’m not sure why I asked.”

So he’s lying to Hinata, then. He sighs and looks out toward the back lot.

“He’s different with you, anyway.”

Slowly, Kenma turns his head back to look at him.

Hinata shifts on his feet. “I think that him choosing anyone to stay here means there’s value somewhere.”

After a moment, Kenma says, “And those before me?”

“He decided they had no value here and made them give up.”

Forget Hinata’s age, forget the lighthearted presence he has. He is by no means foolish.

Kenma just looks at him.

“Hurry it up, you two.” Ennoshita waves at them from inside the truck.

“Yes, sir!” Hinata calls. He smiles at Kenma. “I’m just guessing, but I’m a pretty good guesser.” He heads back out, hopping off the curb toward the loading ramp, striped T-shirt in the sun.

Kenma stands there.

Kageyama reappears behind him. He says as he walks past, “Akaashi-san is coming out to talk to us.”

“Oh. All right.” Kenma follows him out.

Bokuto whistles to round everybody up. “Quick second, guys. Take a breather.” Iwaizumi wipes his brow and Yuuji arches his back.

As Kenma is approaching the truck with Kageyama, he looks over to see Noya, Akaashi, and Kuroo coming out from door number two. Noya’s shirt says _Pour decisions_ ; Akaashi is already in half-uniform. Kuroo’s black T-shirt is faded, no match for his hair.

“Yachi-san just sent an email over,” Akaashi says. They approach, and the group of them make a rough circle. “She has let us know that one of our customers tonight, a Ms. Shirofuku, is here with a few guests to do a review of us. She is not an official critic, but she is a well-known travel and dining blogger with a site that has significant visitor traffic each week. We’ll be seating her at the chef’s table as we usually do, and I have assigned Hinata as her server.”

Hinata nods to him. “Yes, sir.”

“Additionally, next Wednesday we will be having a returning critic from _The_ _Japan Times_. You may remember Nekomata-san from two years ago.”

Kenma sees the chefs and Ennoshita nodding.

“Good,” Akaashi says. “Again, he will be seated at the chef’s table, and I’ll be assigning Kenma.”

It takes a brief moment to register. Kenma looks over at Akaashi while everyone looks at him. Akaashi just lands a sharp, even gaze back on him.

He understands the strategy well enough. He isn’t one to shirk responsibility, even if it isn’t something he actively wants to do, and Akaashi knows as much. Giving him an assignment for next Wednesday is preemptive—almost a guarantee that he will have to at least stay until then, or else risk putting his coworkers out.

Akaashi has a talent for slight manipulation. But Kenma has already become too tired to think about whether he should stay or leave. He keeps coming back anyway.

He shifts his eyes over Akaashi’s shoulder. Kuroo is looking at him, but as he has done of late, he glances away first.

Kenma says, “Yes, sir.”

Akaashi takes his gaze away and looks at the group again. “We’ll be showing them both the same quality and graciousness as always.” A choral _Yes_ in response. “That is all. Please continue.”

“It isn’t special treatment,” Ennoshita explains to him, “but it’s special treatment.”

Kenma is crouched on his haunches, cleaning the legs of his final chair. With the delivery unloaded and everything in its place, prep continued on as usual, and the novelty subsided. Still, he’s starting to think his time per chair has decreased by at least thirty percent. Maybe he could legitimately take on Hinata soon.

He dips his head to the side as he stands, hair swaying. “Understood.”

Ennoshita says in a hushed voice, “The chef’s table is, like, mega.”

It makes Tendou flash into Kenma’s mind. The two of them might get along, depending on how much sadistic tendency Ennoshita harbors behind sleepy, lidded eyes. Kenma gets an image of them standing next to each other, eyes half-closed and heads tilted at him. Perhaps it would be best if they never met either.

“I see,” he murmurs.

“But again, no specific special treatment—same old service, just a little more brownnosing. Unless they ask for anything in particular.” Ennoshita smiles. “And we’ll just hope it’s not Kuroo.”

Kenma knows the answer to his next question, but he asks it anyway. “Doesn’t the executive usually serve the chef’s table?”

Ennoshita smiles halfway and says, “Not since—”

“Ten months ago,” Kenma finishes with him. Ennoshita nods.

Kenma sighs. He flicks open the lid of their lemon wipes; the container is almost empty. They still have tables left before replacing all the red crêpe cloths. “I’ll go get another of these.”

“I think Akaashi ordered orange this time. What a riveting change of pace.”

Kenma snorts and turns to go back to the storage room. “I’ll be right back.”

He weaves his way through the house, around the tables, over Akaashi’s vacuum cord, behind Hinata at the pass. As he moves by everyone at their stations, Yuuji says, “Hey, Kenma. Do you have a quick second?”

Kenma stops and turns to him.

“Could you do me a huge favor?” He puts his hands together.

“Of course.”

“There’s a tiny bottle of black truffle oil I forgot to grab.” He mimics the size of the bottle with his fingers. “Fourth shelf up. Might be a little hidden.”

“I’ll manage.” He smiles.

Yuuji grins back. “Thanks.”

He goes first to the storage room, finding one of the new containers of orange wipes in a lower cabinet, taking the last few lemon and shoving them in the top. If he came home smelling like this, Tendou would make him all the tea he could ever ask for.

He goes into the pantry and scans the fourth shelf. Artisan olive oils from different regions of the world, fancy colored salts, spices he’s never heard of. Two bottles of truffle oil—one white, one black.

Going up on his tiptoes won’t be enough to reach. Hinata says he just jumps for things, but the thought tires Kenma out. He goes instead to the corner where Hinata showed him the stepstool they keep, considering Kuroo’s height preference in waiter.

He props it open, takes the two steps up, wraps his free hand around the bottle.

All at once, he feels the sensation of being trapped with no way out. Something on his back—a gaze, a claw. He turns his head to see Kuroo in the doorway, filling the space there. “Chef,” he breathes.

“Kenma.” He clears his throat, but pauses.

Is this it? Will he be able to do it this time? Or is this something else entirely?

“I’m…”

Kenma waits. The step he’s on puts him just above Kuroo’s one eighty-eight.

Kuroo shifts. “Just saying that you’re doing well here.”

He turns to face Kuroo fully, shoes squeaking on the tread of the stepstool. “Thank you.”

Kuroo looks at him, blinks, then looks sideways. “You’ve proven—”

Kenma’s heart beats heavily. _My worth? My value? What?_

“—that you’re a good fit for this position.” He takes a breath. “And I appreciate the work you’re doing for this restaurant.”

Kenma’s chest heats up, just a little bit. He narrows his eyes. “Did Akaashi tell you to say this to me? Did he tell you to tell me ‘good work’ on my first night?”

Kuroo’s lips part and he looks up at Kenma there. “No. He didn’t.” He shifts on his feet again, still in just his normal T-shirt. He puts a hand on the threshold and grips it. “I’m telling you myself.”

_He doesn’t really_ tell _any of us we’re doing a good job._

Is he actually trying to say something nice?

Still, it feels low-effort and empty. Kenma has now graduated from cheap toy to miscellaneous server number three.

_Can’t you do any better? Aren’t I worth any better?_

“Thanks, Chef.”

He brings one foot down onto the first step of the stool, but he stops when Kuroo takes a step toward him at the same time.

“I’m trying,” Kuroo says.

Kenma frowns. “I don’t think you are.”

_If you’re looking for words of affirmation…_

Yes. He is.

Kuroo comes closer to him. They stand at nearly the same height now, Kenma only a few centimeters shorter. “You’re a good server.”

_Is that all?_

He clutches the truffle oil tighter in his hand.

“What do you think of me?” Kuroo says.

He’s close enough that if Kenma reached his arm out, he would touch Kuroo’s chest. Kuroo looks at him with that desperation flashing in his visible eye. The light above them cuts his jaw cleanly, turns his nose into a straight point, his eyebrow a thin dark line—one feathered brushstroke on his skin. His lips have more color than Kenma thought.

“I don’t know what to think,” Kenma replies.

And he doesn’t. He doesn’t think at all as Kuroo steps forward to try to close the gap. It’s only when Kuroo’s lips get so close to his that he can feel the actual space between them compressing, only when he hears the side of the plastic container bend with a _pop_ under his arm, that Kenma checks back in.

The hand holding the bottle comes up and he pushes Kuroo away with his forearm, keeping his balance on the stepstool. “What are you doing?” He flicks his gaze over Kuroo’s shoulder to the doorway and is relieved that nobody is there.

When he looks back at Kuroo, his features are drawn tight. This isn’t the Kuroo that Kenma first met, buzzed but happy with his fellow chefs. This isn’t the executive who’s too hard on his kitchen, disrespectful to his customers. It might not even be the same Kuroo who hires and loses new servers on a short-term loop. Along with the reality of all of those things, this is another side entirely.

Kuroo ( _Tetsurou_ ) is panicking.

“Shit. I’m—it’s been—I’m sorry.” His hand comes up and pushes through the back of his hair.

“No you’re not.” Kenma holds his ground, one foot still up on the second step.

Kuroo’s eyebrow lifts at the middle. “I am. It was impulsive.”

Kenma’s frown deepens. It feels strange to talk, to move his lips. “I don’t care if you intended it or not. You did it anyway.”

“You’re not faceless.”

It comes out frantic, the highest pitch Kenma has heard from Kuroo since coming here. Kenma watches him look down at his hand, close it and open it. Close his eyes.

He just says, too quietly, “What?”

“You said faceless servers.” Kuroo drops his hand to his side. “You’re not faceless.”

Anger wells up inside of him again. He feels it prickle at his arms, the hair at the back of his neck. “Are you trying to tell me that you _care_ about the people you hire in this position and then chase out?”

“I’m trying to say that—” Kuroo waves a hand, “that you’re not like them.” He puts the hand on his hip and the other on his forehead.

_Enough. This is pathetic._

Kenma feels no expression on his face as he looks at Kuroo standing there. “The fact that I’m good at this job should make you even less inclined to behave this way with me.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

“Then what do you mean, Kuroo?”

The name slips out instead of the title. Kuroo looks up at him, his eye a little wider, and Kenma starts to wonder if his not referring to him as Chef will flare his temper, but it’s too late now.

But Kuroo doesn’t say anything.

It’s pathetic, and it’s ridiculous. What a fool to say that he isn’t the only one who would leave. Even Iwaizumi, the person Kuroo is the hardest on in this entire restaurant, won’t give it up for the world. The loyalty everyone has to Kuroo is astounding. He was wrong to think any of them would ever walk out.

And in the end, even he hasn’t left—even with all of this. He’s still standing here, quiet in front of Kuroo, nearly level with his height, holding a container of orange-scented sanitizing wipes and a bottle of black truffle oil in the middle of a pantry worth tens of millions. Standing here in all that worth, worthless.

_You’re one of us._

Ennoshita’s level voice can piss off for once.

_He decided they had no value here and made them give up._

And Hinata’s…

He takes a deep breath, sighs steadily out. Evens his voice. “If you want people to stick around and help this restaurant, then stop being such an ass. To everyone.” Kuroo opens his mouth, but he keeps going. “Or if I’m disposable like everyone else told me I am to you…”

Kuroo closes his mouth again. His swallow clicks audibly.

Kenma says, “Then fire me.”

They stand there looking at each other in the dim. Kenma waits for it, half of him actually hoping it will happen, that Kuroo will make the decision for him and send him away, and he won’t have to deal with this anymore.

His lips still tingle from where they almost touched.

Kuroo just says again, “I’m sorry.”

Fine. Then that’s that.

Kenma brings both feet to the bottom step. “Thank you for the apology, Chef.” He holds up the bottle. “Yuuji is waiting for this, so I’m going to go back to work now.”

Kuroo moves out of his way. He steps down from the stool and leaves it there behind him as he walks out.

He takes another breath, letting the fluorescents of the kitchen wash harshly over him again. When he makes it to Yuuji, he places the bottle at his station next to where Yuuji is measuring out soy sauce and gelatin.

Yuuji smiles at him. “Thanks again. Hard to find?”

_It took a while, didn’t it_. Even if it was only a few minutes, it felt like ages. He forces himself to not look behind him. “No, just…” He shakes his head. “Was distracted.”

Yuuji lifts a brow. “Everything okay?”

_Don’t bother mentioning it. Even to Yuuji. Just let it blow over. That’s that_. “I’m fine.”

“You sure?” Yuuji’s eyes leave Kenma’s, drifting behind him and following Kuroo’s form out of the hallway. They come back and ask the question again.

Kenma nods. “Yeah. I’m going to go get the house ready.” He starts past him.

“Tomorrow will be better,” Yuuji says, soft enough that nobody else can hear over the noise of prep.

Tomorrow.

Kenma looks up at him. Nods again.

As he leaves the kitchen and is rounding the pass, he can see in the corner of his eye Kuroo looking at him. Before he can even turn his head, Kuroo’s shoulders tense and he occupies with something else, calling to Bokuto.

Ennoshita is already looking between the two of them when he gets back. “What did he do this time.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.” He hands the container over.

Ennoshita takes it with a sigh. “Jesus. We’ll keep you busy until you can leave. Focus on the customers, and when Hinata’s doing the chef’s table, just observe from afar.”

Kenma glances at the table itself—the closest one to the pass with a clear view into the kitchen. It isn’t as though he won’t have to go to the kitchen hundreds of times during the night to relay and pick up orders anyway, but he at least appreciates the sentiment.

“These are probably toxic, if it comes to that.” Ennoshita wields the orange wipes. Tendou really would like him. He offers a slight smile. “Let’s get these tables over with, shall we?”

Kenma nods. “This whole service.”

* * *

**HC: Ushiwaka is vegetarian. He is a firm believer in no harm done to living animals, and his farm is 100% cruelty-free and organic. He is the top producer of organic grains in his region. He keeps animals solely for his own purposes—as in, he doesn’t sell animal products, just likes having farm pets and fresh eggs—and he cares very well for them. He has an extra soft spot for his cows. During typhoon season, if a bad one is incoming, he has a converted garage on the first floor of the mansion that he brings the animals into so they feel safe. He can fit all three of his cows, both horses, all fifteen chickens, and the four miniature fainting goats Tendou begged for ages for him to get. Their names are Rubidium “Rubi”, Technetium “Tech”, Francium “France”, and Tin.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was the first headcanon I ever came up with for this story, and that inspired me to include one at the end of each chapter. Heh.


	12. and i hid the half i left with you.

His reflection in the window scares Kuroo when he walks into his bedroom. Outside, the moon is in first quarter, cut in half and tilted in a cloudless sky. The other him tells him that he looks like shit, and in his head, he replies, _Funny. For a long time, I’ve been thinking the same of you._

He approaches himself, avoids his own gaze, and draws the curtains shut. It kicks up dust from the corners by the sill, but that can be dealt with some other time.

Kei had pointed out the first quarter moon on the night Kuroo started cheating.

He falls onto his bed.

_Or if I’m disposable like everyone else told me I am to you…_

“You’re not.” He covers his face with his hands. “I think that I…”

He couldn’t look at Kenma for the rest of the night after what he did in the pantry. Each time Kenma came to the pass, he was too afraid to even glance, too ashamed to meet his eyes. He made Kei take over expediting on his own so he could hide in the kitchen. Hide behind his work like he’s been doing for ten months. Maybe more.

After service, Kenma avoided him until he could leave.

That’s that. This is what he gets.

He wonders if it will end up being Ennoshita who takes the chef’s table for Nekomata on Wednesday. If the current assignment won’t be there anymore.

There are too many things in his head at once. He rolls onto his stomach and puts his face in the pillows.

_It won’t just be faceless servers like me walking out on you._

Somehow, he still feels the moonlight coming in.

Opening night was the third quarter phase. He remembers being able to see it in the distance through the front doors of Tiger’s Eye as they began their founding service. He remembers the way Akaashi smiled as he went personally to every table, how fired up Bokuto was to finally be working in their own place. Ennoshita’s then-flawed yet equally charming work, Kageyama’s nerves at baking in a service kitchen for the first time, Iwaizumi’s steadfast reliability from night one, Terushima’s unending grin. The way Kei would catch his gaze throughout service and calmly resume working. He remembers the lights over the tables glowing all at once, how the red crêpe tablecloths swayed when people took their chairs, how the city lights outside streaked iridescent across the glass doors each time Akaashi welcomed in a new table. Fine details that have lost their magic since.

He remembers the way the suit Daichi wore—just barely too tight on him since joining the police academy—was vivid navy under those lights, and brushed lightly against that red cloth, when he sat down as the first customer to get a place at the chef’s table.

When Daichi came into his life, Kuroo was younger and brighter and narrower and happy—fresh from high school, and still in the process of applying to culinary programs. He was healthier then, a drink or two on special occasions, with hair that was kempt and out of his face. He slept on his side holding Daichi in front of him, or on his back with Daichi’s hand on his chest.

Daichi once told him, quietly in the morning with a kiss to his cheek, that he’s the kind of person who makes the same mistakes over and over again.

_Funny. For a—_

“Stop,” he whispers into the bed beneath him.

But even as he pushes the sides of the pillows up to cover his ears, like the moonlight, it floods in anyway.

_You’ve been distant from me, Daichi._

Five and a half years into their relationship, almost two into Tiger’s Eye, more than seven months into Kei. He had no right.

Daichi laughed gently. _Funny. For a long time, I’ve been thinking the same of you._

He always had that voice—that calm, low voice that was never angry, never accusatory. That voice drew Kuroo in when they met, and made him want to know more about the personality behind something so smooth, collected, and relaxed.

Even right then, as he told Kuroo without needing to say the words that he was aware of exactly what Kuroo had been doing for far too long, Daichi’s voice was still as gentle as ever.

_You know_ , Kuroo had said.

Daichi nodded to him. _Of course. It makes sense, doesn’t it?_

Kuroo looked into his plain brown eyes; his plain, faultless face. _I…have no excuse. We’ve been—things haven’t been the same with us, and I—needed something_.

It was pathetic then, and still is in his memory now.

_And you didn’t ask me?_ Daichi paused. _No. Asking wouldn’t have mattered. I just don’t have it._

 _I’m sorry. I never should have…_ His voice got higher, frantic. _I’ll stop seeing him. I’ll drop everything._

_No you won’t._

He pushes the pillows harder against his head.

_I will._

 _That’s not it. You_ won’t _drop everything. It’s not about the cheating. It isn’t about the other man._ Daichi looked down. _It’s about that place._

It took him a moment to understand—to realize that Kei was only a symptom, and, in the end, really had nothing to do with it. It was always about the restaurant.

Daichi sighed. Whenever Daichi sighed, Kuroo’s heart squeezed a little too tightly. _You don’t…_ He shook his head. _It was_ _different when you were in culinary school, and when you were working with Sugawara. But now…_ He looked back up. _You hardly exist anymore, Tetsu. Or maybe I hardly exist to you._

His throat was so tight. _That’s not true, Daichi. I swear to god it’s not true._

Daichi smiled and brushed his hand over Kuroo’s hair on his right side, then rested his palm on his cheek. _I don’t believe you._

In that moment, he felt the weight of everything break over his shoulders, crushing him.

_That restaurant swallowed everything_ , Daichi started saying, and it sounded like Kuroo was underwater, getting swallowed with it. Daichi said, as if he could read his mind—and maybe after all that time, he could— _It took you with it. And I’ve been reaching and reaching, trying to catch you, to just place my hand on your back and get your attention, but you’re too far ahead. You’re going on without me. I don’t know. Maybe I haven’t tried hard enough, but…at some point I have to give up. I can’t ask you to come back, so it’s what I have to do. I’m giving up._

_Daichi, please._

_It has been incredible watching you succeed in your dream._ That smile. The wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. _Two Michelin Stars, and in barely two years. I’m so proud of you, Tetsu. You’ll get your third—I know you will. I want you to._

 _Stop it._ He was crying then, with Daichi’s hand still on his cheek as his bangs began to fall to what would become their place over his eye. _Stop doing this._

Daichi laughed too gently again and shook his head, brushing Kuroo’s tears away with his thumb. _For once, Tetsu, you don’t have any control. I get this choice. You’re going to let me make it._

Daichi stopped reaching.

The house emptied. Kuroo buried into his work as he put on a façade and held it up in front of his face for everybody at the restaurant to see. Whenever Bokuto or Akaashi asked in private, he brushed it away. Selfishly, he took some of the weight from his chest and put it on Kei instead. He dived into him, but only on his own terms.

Four months later, at the turn of the year, his rival received his third Michelin Star, and two months following that, Kuroo received Daichi’s. At that point, something released, like he had fulfilled some promise he’d made or some wish he had to grant, getting that final star. And then it was over. There was no longer a goal—nothing good to look forward to, and nothing good to look back on.

His loose grasp on anything led him to cling desperately and turned him into a control freak. He started getting after his kitchen, started resenting his customers. He began to sleep with his face shrouded in the pillows, stopped caring what he looked like in the morning—his body or his hair or his expression that gradually changed from defeated to jaded. Whenever Kei tried to help, he brushed him away, too.

The new façade fell into place, and because of his industry, the outbursts and the snapping and everything else was taken by anyone on the outside as part of the job. He’s a chef, after all—the founding executive of a restaurant with three stars. One thing to his name, and nothing more. Without his team—the people he is so violently protective over, and who he has been slowly letting down since ten months ago—he would be nothing at all.

And now part of his team is going to leave. The chance he thought he could catch is too good for him, and Kuroo has given him no other choice. It doesn’t matter how desperate he is for Kenma to stay—he is going to walk out all the same, and he has every reason to do so, because Kuroo couldn’t give him anything better.

He wraps his arms over his head, encasing the pillows around him and shutting out the light.

* * *

**HC: Daichi was Kuroo’s first true love, and Kuroo was his first time. He studied sciences in high school, and began working with a landscaping company after graduation and before attending the police academy. He met Kuroo just after finishing a shift, with a smudge of dirt at his brow. Kuroo still remembers exactly what it looked like—a swipe three centimeters in length from two fingertips of a dirty glove, above Daichi’s right eye and just under his hairline where, if he hadn’t kept his hair so close-cropped, bangs might have covered it.**


	13. miscellaneous server number three

Things stay the same for days.

On Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday, Kuroo came in so late that even Akaashi wondered if he actually wasn’t coming at all, but he stumbled in close to four each time, and Kenma couldn’t tell if it was him buzzed, drunk, or just depressed. The way Tsukishima looked at Kuroo from across the kitchen didn’t make any difference in his judgement. Unless Akaashi mentioned something to Kuroo in his office at some point, nobody bothered to say anything.

Monday night, after taking a day to process it, Kenma told Tendou about what happened in the pantry.

_“Remember what I said about scattering him across Tokyo?”_

_He shook his head. “Tell me to quit, Tendou.”_

_“I’m not telling you to do anything.” He looked over at Kenma from where he was making them dinner (breakfast? a meal?) wearing an apron with the periodic elements:_ MnSLaUTeEr _. “You know you keep touching your mouth, right?”_

_Kenma took his fingers away from where they were brushing at his lips. He looked at his hand, lowered it. “If it weren’t for the actual job, I’d lose my mind.”_

_Tendou lifted a brow. “That’s something I never thought I’d hear you say.”_

_Kenma fell to his back on his bed. “It’s routine. And fast enough that I can just keep moving. When I meet his eyes, I can just look away. I can just say,_ Yes, Chef _.”_

_“You don’t believe that he’s trying? You don’t think he was telling you the truth?”_

_Tendou is really good at ignoring the parts that don’t matter. At seeing right through him. “I don’t know if he was lying.”_

_Tendou stuck an arm out like he was blocking with a shield. “Deflected.”_

_Kenma made sure Tendou could hear his sigh._

_“You’re anxious,” Tendou said._

_“Of course I am.”_

_“Okay, forget everything else. If you’re looking at just Kuroo—not executive whatever, just him. What do you,” he turned with his cooking chopsticks in hand, flicking his tongue over the tip of one, some kind of red sauce, “think of him?”_

He blinks away from Kuroo’s side profile when Akaashi calls out to them, coming through the house.

“A few extra minutes, everyone.”

Kenma follows Hinata and Ennoshita up to the pass.

“Late this morning, Ms. Shirofuku published her review of Tiger’s Eye on her blog,” Akaashi begins as they gather. “It’s lengthy, and I will say she went into fine detail about our building, décor, and our overall atmosphere, which we don’t need to discuss. Regarding her meal, she enjoyed the sunchoke and felt it was perfectly done.” Bokuto grins. “And she felt that Noya’s choice pairing couldn’t have been more appropriate for her courses in full.” Noya dusts invisible glitter from his shoulder. “However, most importantly from the review…”

Kenma watches as Akaashi looks down at the papers he’s holding in his hands. The word _However_ doesn’t convey much with Akaashi’s tone of voice and unchanging expression, and Kenma is waiting to see which way it will go. He releases his hands from where he was squeezing them together and unconsciously brings his fingertips up to his mouth.

Akaashi finds a line, reading with his finger. “‘The Kobe was good—perfectly acceptable for such a fine cut of meat—if not the barley base a little dry, and the horseradish cream a little mild.’”

Kenma glances at Yuuji, who straightens his shoulders and nods once.

“‘The damson was beautifully reduced, the rose petals appeared straight from the garden, and I won’t discount the silky feel of the panna cotta, though it may have served better in a ramekin.’ And, ‘a lighter touch on the plating. Aesthetically, the damson oozed from the shortbread and made the lavender flowers soggy.’”

This time, Kageyama angles his face down a few degrees, bangs falling in his eyes. He puts his feet together and his hands behind his back. “Yes, sir.”

_Acceptable_ doesn’t seem like it’s up to Kuroo’s standards, especially those for Iwaizumi. _A lighter touch_ flashes Kenma back to the one thing he’s heard Kuroo say specifically to Kageyama before: _Delicate._ And now Yuuji is in the mix too, with a critique of the one thing he’s meant to be the best at in this kitchen: flavor.

The last thing Kenma wants is to be privy to close-range beratement from the executive to his chefs. It’s hard enough hearing it briefly during service as he takes a new platter.

He glances at Kuroo, at his short sleeves and his arms as he crosses them. He’s frowning, but not at Iwaizumi or Kageyama or Yuuji—at the papers in Akaashi’s hands.

“And finally,” Akaashi says. He sighs and reads, “‘For three Michelin Stars that drive a high price, it was a perfectly average performance, with, regrettably, a slow wait service.’”

Hinata’s cheeks redden and his mouth pulls into an embarrassed line.

_Don’t,_ Kenma thinks in Kuroo’s direction. _Not him too._

Akaashi looks up. Everyone waits for somebody to say something.

Kuroo speaks first. “She’s not even a real critic,” he says low. “As if a ramekin is more appropriate and aesthetically pleasing than pulled from a dariole mould to allow the aromatized floral elements to release and pearl at the outer surface.” Kageyama looks back up at him, the fluorescents casting his eyes in blue again. “Her review is worth nothing,” Kuroo says.

Tsukishima says, “Chef, every customer—”

“Enough with it, Kei.”

Tsukishima closes his mouth and adjusts his glasses. Kenma isn’t the only one to put his eyes to the floor.

They wait again.

Hinata speaks up next, voice small but determined. “I apologize for being slow for the chef’s table. I’ll work harder next time.”

Kuroo looks at Hinata, his frown deepening. He tilts his jaw up. “Like hell. You’ve always been an exceptional server and you were equally exceptional with her. Since when is Hinata Shouyou slow.”

Hinata’s eyes widen, glittering with the light from the kitchen. He tucks his shoulders up and says, “Yes, Chef. Thank you, Chef.”

Kenma takes a moment to remember what makes this different. _My chefs._ He expected raging, lashing out at those who received any critique. Is this Kuroo trying? Is it because he genuinely believes it was the reviewer’s fault—because he places more value in his chefs than her opinion of his restaurant?

It’s a sentiment that part of Kenma, against his better judgement and his pride, actually likes—the solid team, us against the world. His desire for Kuroo’s value is enough to tell him that it’s something he wants to be a part of. But at the same time, his mind starts creating another image: Tendou, omniscient as always, standing on a podium in an infomercial in his grey blazer and blue tie, holding up a huge book that reads on the cover: _How To Run A Restaurant._ The camera zooms in on him as he grins and says, _Let’s take a look inside!_ On the first page, serif lettering in red reads: NOT LIKE THIS. He points to the camera.

It’s about strategy and balance—the right mix of defense and offense. This whole time, Kenma has thought that Kuroo has been attacking, ready to throw punches at whoever tries him first or doesn’t do what he wants. But all at once, as he looks from Kuroo to Hinata, standing there glassy-eyed as Ennoshita ruffles his hair, Kenma understands that the only thing Kuroo has known for the past ten months, if not longer, is defense. Defense, and the wrong way to go about it.

In the end, Kenma isn’t sure who Tendou is pointing at.

“We can’t discount any reviewer’s criticism,” Akaashi says in his even, rational tone. “Regardless of who they are.”

“That’s what I’m doing,” Kuroo says flatly. “We have a legitimate critic tonight as it is. And with Ke—” He stops short.

Kenma’s heart skips against his ribs. He’s looking at Kuroo, and Kuroo looks at him.

Kuroo shuts his mouth, looks at the pass. Tries again. “And Kozume will be serving. And we’ll just—do as we always do. We’ve served Nekomata for a good review before,” he mutters. “It’s fine.”

_What were you going to say?_ Kenma thinks. _Tell me._

Tsukishima sighs and closes his eyes.

“It will be more precise, Chef,” Iwaizumi says. He and Kuroo look at each other, and despite how much Kuroo gets after him in the kitchen, the agreement passes easily between them.

“More flavorful,” Yuuji says.

“And more delicate,” Kageyama says.

Bokuto says with finality, “Each plate to impossible standards.” He winks obviously at Kuroo. “We’ll get it three-star perfect, no matter who’s eating it.”

Kenma can’t remember if the pink dusting at Kuroo’s cheeks has been there the whole night or not. Maybe he wasn’t looking close enough.

Across the pass, Kenma catches Bokuto looking at him. Much more discreetly this time, he winks again.

Kuroo tightens his arms, digging his fingers into a bicep. He looks pointedly at the pass and says, “I’m pissed. Let’s work.”

“ _Yes, Chef_.”

He goes with Akaashi to the front to seat Nekomata Yasufumi at nine p.m.

“Welcome back, Nekomata-sama,” Akaashi says, bowing deeply. “We’re pleased to have you visiting our restaurant once again.”

Kenma bows, too. “My name is Kozume Kenma. I’ll gladly be your server for this evening.” He motions a gloved hand toward the kitchen. “We have the chef’s table prepared for you if you’ll follow us.”

Nekomata smiles at them, and even with his age, there’s some slyness to it—the attitude of a long-time professional critic who can see past any fronts, special treatment, or platitudes. It makes Kenma nervous, but at the same time makes him realize that he treats every customer basically the same way, whoever they are. To him, at least, people are just people. He’s always been just Kenma.

“Thank you very much,” Nekomata says.

At the table, Kenma follows what he saw Hinata do last week—the same motions, the same lines, almost the same posture. He expects Nekomata to leave his phone on the table for somewhere to write things down like Shirofuku did, but he doesn’t. Noya comes over immediately instead of Akaashi suggesting Nekomata make use of their master sommelier as he would do with any other customer. Kenma goes through the menu with detailed descriptions of each dish pulled from his memory—the file folder that’s at the front of his mind fifty percent of his time since beginning this job. Noya makes his suggestion, and Nekomata makes his choices, and Kenma moves to the one other table of four he was assigned during the next hour and a half, plenty of time left over for him to attend to Nekomata’s every will and need, should he have any.

He goes to the pass, brings entrées, pours more wine. Passes Hinata in the house and automatically shifts his full platter of empty dishes to his other hand where it’s almost as though it balances itself, pivoting perfectly into place where he stops it with his fingertips, level. He brings Nekomata the king crab appetizer, surprised at how pleased he is with Nekomata’s choice because the crab dish is truly beautiful, one of Bokuto and Yuuji’s finest: the soft red and white of the meat, bright orange translucent triangular slices of calamansi flesh and vivid green zest of the rind, glistening thinly-julienned cucumber, all atop a pristine white semicircular swath of Greek yogurt and dripped with a blood red sherry reduction. Nekomata thanks him with a smile and a calm nod.

As he’s headed to cold storage to grab a fresh bottle of water for his other table, Ennoshita comes out of the back room with new place settings in his hand. “Going well?”

Kenma nods. “He’s an easy customer.”

Ennoshita chuckles. “Two kinds of critics. There are those who demand special treatment, who are needy and pushy. They’re usually newer critics on the scene, and we’ve had a few in our three years. But the other kind,” he points the place settings out in the direction of the house, “are those who say nothing at all. The kind who you have no idea what they’re thinking until that review comes out.” He brushes his hair back from his face and does the mid-service sigh Kenma has grown personally familiar with. “Nekomata’s the latter. If he were to say something during the actual service, somebody would be in for it.”

In the kitchen, Kenma hears Kuroo shouting something about acidity at Yuuji, the usual _Yes, Chef_ in response.

“Fingers crossed,” he says.

Ennoshita pats him on the shoulder as he goes. “No worries. Everyone likes you, anyway.”

Kenma watches him walk out of the hallway before turning into cold storage.

Twenty minutes later, he’s serving desserts to his table of four and coming back to the pass for Nekomata’s entrée. He places his platter on the countertop and looks into the kitchen. Tsukishima sees him there, glances behind him at the chef’s table, then calls out, “Are we almost ready with the foie gras?”

“Coming up with the reduction now,” Yuuji says, lifting a saucepan from a burner and finding a spoon.

“Bok choy, behind,” Bokuto says.

“Thirty seconds, Chef,” Iwaizumi calls.

“Make it twenty,” Kuroo orders.

Tsukishima gives him a glance but says nothing.

Iwaizumi’s brows go down, and Kenma wants him to say, _I can’t make it cook any faster. You know that_. He just says, “Yes, Chef.”

In less than two minutes, the dish is given finishing touches, plated by Tsukishima, and he says, “Service.”

Kenma takes the plate in his hands instead of on the platter, and turns on his heel to take it to the chef’s table.

He steps into the house and over to the side of where Nekomata sits. “The foie gras, sir.” He places the dish in front of him. “We hope it’s to your enjoyment. Is there anything else I can do for you at this moment?”

He already knows the answer—Nekomata isn’t drinking enough wine for him to pour more of it, and he’s the second type of critic as it is. “No, thank you,” Nekomata says.

Kenma bows to him, hands held together in front of him. “Of course. Please let me know if you need anything else.” He turns away as Nekomata brings up his utensils.

He’ll go check on his other table, and then he can take a few minutes to see if Hinata or Ennoshita need—

“Excuse me, Kozume-san.”

The split second that it takes for him to stop moving forward feels like forever. It could be anything—a changed mind about wanting some wine after all, a fresh set of utensils for the entrée, _anything_. But if there’s one more thing that playing and reading storylines all his life gave Kenma besides reflexes and strategy, it’s intuition.

More than enough of Ennoshita’s past words flash through his head at once.

_It doesn’t matter what it is—you have to report it to Kuroo._

_If he were to say something during the actual service, somebody would be in for it._

_You never know with him. Everything is a façade._

He turns back around and goes to the critic. “Yes, sir.”

Nekomata brings gentle fingertips to the edge of his plate and turns it at an angle towards Kenma. The foie gras has been cut in half, exactly down the middle. With an untrained eye, Kenma can’t see any issues, but he doesn’t have to guess.

“Please let your chef know this is undercooked.”

Kenma feels the dread coming over him and tries to stave it off. If he can’t deal with that much, he won’t last here. But…this is different. Nekomata is a professional in the food industry. He’ll be writing them a professional review. What happens next?

He wants to turn and look at Iwaizumi. Wonders if he’s sensing everything.

He bows his head and takes the plate. “Of course, sir. Our apologies. Please give me one moment and we will have this remedied for you as soon as we can.”

He swallows, turns back again. Are his hands shaking? He looks down at his gloves, perfectly molded around his thumbs holding the edge of the plate.

The chefs don’t notice him coming up to the pass as he sets the plate down. “Chef,” he says quietly.

Tsukishima looks up first, breaking his concentration on plating scallops. He looks at Kenma and then at the dish. When the dread moves over him too, it turns his brows down, then closes his eyes briefly. He takes a breath, straightens, and says, louder than Kenma could manage, “Chef.”

Everybody looks up. Kenma catches a flash in Bokuto’s eyes, the look of horror that spreads across Yuuji’s features. Iwaizumi stares at the plate.

From the back of the kitchen where he’s uncorking a bottle of Tokaji, Kuroo looks to the front. “What?”

Kenma nods at the plate on the pass. “Nekomata-sama’s foie gras is undercooked, Chef.”

With the look on Kuroo’s face, Kenma wonders if the Tokaji would have been shattered on the floor had Kageyama not instinctually taken it from Kuroo’s hands.

Without a word, Kuroo starts toward the other side of the kitchen. Iwaizumi immediately turns to face him and says, “Chef,” but Kuroo isn’t going to him. He moves to the refrigerator and opens one of the doors.

Iwaizumi puts down the pair of tongs in his hand. “Chef, it’s my fault.”

Kuroo comes out of the fridge with something in his hand—pale pink, glistening in the light. The word _raw_ reveals itself Kenma’s mind. A shadow falls over Kuroo’s face as the door slams shut. He starts walking out.

“Chef, don’t,” Bokuto says.

Kuroo lands a scowl on him. “Back to work. All of you. Do not stop the movement in this kitchen.”

No. There’s no way. Kenma stands there, alarmed, watching Kuroo move towards the exit of the kitchen. It should be Iwaizumi bearing the punishment—it _has_ to be. But Kuroo won’t do it. He’s playing defense too hard. Somebody is in for it, and it suddenly strikes Kenma that, somewhere down the line, even if not tonight, it’s going to be Kuroo.

At the back of the kitchen, Kageyama runs an arm over his face. Bokuto hangs his head, clenching his jaw. When Kenma looks at Iwaizumi, his hands are held by his waist, as if he’s about to untie his apron, but they’re stuck there, unmoving.

“Another bad one,” Yuuji murmurs. “Here we go.”

Kuroo steps into the hallway carrying the raw foie gras in his fist.

_Pick your battles, Kenma._

_Just endure it._

This isn’t about him enduring it anymore; it’s about the customer. He _is_ picking his battles. He would be morally wrong not to choose this one.

He steps away from the pass toward Kuroo as he comes near. “Chef. We’re not doing this again.”

Kuroo turns a quick eye on him, intense, a crescent of yellow from the lamp over the chef’s table suspended in his iris. “Don’t get in my way, Kenma.”

“Your way is _wrong_.”

The briefest pause passes between them, and in it, Kenma can sense Akaashi noticing the ordeal from across the house. But Kuroo makes his decision in the heat of the moment, and his hand closes tighter around the raw cut of liver. Kenma watches it drip once onto the floor, and it angers him that he immediately marks the spot in his mind for later—for when he’ll have to clean up Kuroo’s mess, to get down on his knees again.

He stares up at Kuroo’s face, and Kuroo looks down at him. And then Kuroo moves past him to the chef’s table. When Kenma turns, Nekomata is waiting patiently, watching everything.

Kuroo approaches him. “ _This_ is undercooked.” He throws the foie gras down in front of Nekomata. It hits the tablecloth with a wet smack and splatters moisture, soaks into the red. Nekomata doesn’t flinch. “That’s some of the finest and most humane that Spain has to offer. You could heat it up in a microwave and it would still be incredible,” Kuroo says. “You’ve seen the pride of this restaurant. My _rotisseur_ cooked you a perfect lamb loin two years ago. He is celebrated across Tokyo, and you choose to question his judgement. He’s as good as if I cooked the fucking thing myself.” He glowers down at Nekomata. “The rich make me sick.”

In the moment, Kenma thinks, _Aren’t you?_

He can see Akaashi moving across the house with fire in his gaze. He looks at Kenma and mouths the words, _Stop him_.

Without thinking any longer, Kenma grabs Kuroo’s wrist and starts pulling. Kuroo’s arm tenses immediately, but Kenma says, “Follow.”

“Kenma,” Kuroo says low.

Kenma doesn’t bother replying, just tightens his grip and drags. He glances back for only a moment—not at Kuroo, but at the house. Customers staring, Nekomata pleasantly sitting alone, Akaashi coming upon him with more apologies than Kuroo could ever offer. Ennoshita, Hinata, and Noya alike all watching Kenma.

He grits his teeth and looks toward the hallway through the kitchen. Making it back there out of sight is the only goal he can think of right now.

As they walk through, the chefs watch them, too. All of them except Iwaizumi, who finally gets his hands to move, quickly untying his apron. “Tsukishima,” he says.

Tsukishima nods. “Kageyama.”

The three of them rotate in one fluid motion—Kageyama to the pass to plate, Tsukishima to Iwaizumi’s station, and Iwaizumi out to the chef’s table and into a deep bow.

“Kenma,” Kuroo says again, but he isn’t pulling back.

Kenma drags him past the chefs, between Bokuto and Yuuji’s stations, and through the dim of the hallway. He pulls him into the pantry and lets go of his arm.

Kuroo starts first. “I hope you have an explanation—”

“Why are you doing this to yourself?” He about-faces and lands a glare on Kuroo.

Kuroo recoils, blinking once. His gaze flicks between Kenma’s eyes. “What?”

“You’re doing this to yourself. Don’t you get that?” His tone is harsher than he expected. “I know you have a problem with your customers, but he’s a critic. You could have just fixed it—just sucked it up and apologized and redone it. The _Times_ will not have a gleaming review for you following this, and I doubt Nekomata or half of these diners will ever come back here.”

Kuroo glares back. “I know that. But you don’t—” He stops. Kenma watches, fascinated, as he puts a hand on his hip, brings the other up and lowers it back down, closes his eyes, and takes a breath. He’s actually trying to control his temper. “You don’t question the judgement of my chefs,” Kuroo says as evenly as he can.

“You’re the one who told Iwaizumi to go faster,” Kenma counters. “He’s the one with the unerring sense of time, isn’t he?”

“It’s—”

“It wasn’t Nekomata who questioned his judgement,” Kenma says. “It was you.”

The look on Kuroo’s face changes in an instant. But where Kenma expects fury, a flash of orange in his dark pupil from the overhead light, a tightening of the jaw and quick retaliation, maybe hands where they shouldn’t go—instead, his one visible brow tilts upward and his mouth pulls out in a look of… Shock? Worry?

Shame.

He hears Kuroo’s words to him in this same spot on Saturday evening: _I’m trying. I’m sorry._

Are words enough? The actions that just transpired in the house aren’t.

Either way, Kuroo’s pathetic expression makes the scolding Kenma had coming up retreat back down into his throat. Besides, though he isn’t a skilled chef like the rest of them, it’s still obvious that ten missing seconds wouldn’t have made that much of a difference. Between two Michelin Stars and three, maybe, but not between edible and inedible. If the foie gras was undercooked to the point where Nekomata, the second type of critic who says nothing unless it’s necessary, would send it back, then it really was Iwaizumi’s fault. Iwaizumi knew that; he went to apologize because of it. The chefs here are incredible, but not infallible. They’re all still just people. And Kuroo puts the most pressure on his _rotisseur_ already.

But, just as Kuroo has been too stubborn to admit his own mistakes, Kenma is too stubborn to admit that information right now and take back what he said. Foolishly, because he chose this battle, he wants to win it. Kuroo needs some kind of awakening.

In the hallway, the orange of Hinata’s hair rushes past the doorway and into the back storage room. Almost instantly, he passes by again carrying a new tablecloth.

When Kenma looks at Kuroo again, his mouth is open but he isn’t saying anything.

Kenma sighs and looks down. “You’re losing popularity for a reason. It isn’t because of the food.” He shakes his head. “You could make somebody sick with undercooked meat, you know. Even yourself.”

“Iwaizumi’s cook was—”

“I’m not talking about the dish, Kuroo.” He looks up again. “I’m talking about you splattering raw liver onto a twenty-thousand-yen tablecloth that I’m going to have to hand-treat after service.” He stops, then for some reason adds, “Do you want me to get sick, too?”

Kuroo presses his lips together and looks sideways. “I wasn’t…”

“Yeah. You weren’t.” He watches Kuroo’s face for some sort of sign, any indication, but there isn’t one. It’s the same desperate façade of a man. He sighs again. “There’s a lot of loyalty in this restaurant. I…” He brings the fingertips of his gloves to his lips but doesn’t touch, then drops them again. “Like it. The idea of having a group—anybody would want it. The inclusion. The closeness.” Kuroo is staring at him. He looks down and brushes his hair back from the sides of his face, lets it fall forward again. “I just don’t understand.”

“Don’t understand what?” Kuroo asks him. His voice is like it was on Saturday, when he said those words.

_Why I’m not good enough to get what you give to them._

What’s the point. That’s not even why they’re back here. Kenma wonders if Nekomata is even going to stay for the rest of his meal, for one of Kageyama’s three-star desserts.

He shakes his head again. “I don’t know,” he whispers.

Silence between them.

Kuroo turns his whole body back toward the doorway. Kenma looks up at him, speechless. “Back to work. Let’s not waste time like this again.”

Kenma just says, “Are you kidding?”

Kuroo’s shoulders hunch up and he lowers his head. “We need to go back out.”

“Kuroo.” He waits for Kuroo to turn around at his name, but he won’t. The scolding wells up in him again, but it’s different words this time. He frowns at Kuroo’s back, and for some reason his throat feels tight. “I can tell, okay? You said you’re trying. I get it. But it has to be something else than just this. This is your restaurant and it’s your job to do the best you can for it and for us. _Your_ renowned restaurant with _your_ renowned chefs, and a wait staff you chose who are the same caliber as anybody else standing on this floor. I don’t care if you’re the _rotisseur_ , the sous chef, the executive founding owner, or just an average waiter like me. It doesn’t matter. We’re all in the same building. If we can do well by this place, then you are obligated to do so, too.”

The words stop, and he doesn’t want to deal with it anymore. Kuroo, Tiger’s Eye; for tonight, he’s had enough of it. He keeps asking himself when it will get easier and the answer never comes out.

He starts past Kuroo, but he feels a hand grab his wrist. He stops, looking at the floor, then turns. He looks at Kuroo’s right hand—the one that held the raw foie gras—tainting his glove.

“Give me some time,” Kuroo asks of him.

It’s so absurd that Kenma nearly smiles. _Funny,_ he thinks, _coming from the man who just told me not to waste his time. How much time_ have _you wasted? Ten months?_

He gives a single, bitter laugh. “You’ve had plenty of time, Kuroo. You’ve just started so late.” He pulls his wrist gently from Kuroo’s grasp. He’ll have to go get another pair of gloves now—a pair that isn’t his. He sighs and doesn’t look into Kuroo’s face again. Whatever is there, he doesn’t know if he can handle seeing it. “Wash your hands,” he says quietly, “and lower your fists. Doing things like you did tonight only brings the rest of us down with you.”

He leaves the pantry again.

“Kozume.”

He looks over his shoulder from where he’s kneeling on the floor, brush and cleaner in hand, over the place where Kuroo stood during his tantrum. He flicks his hair from his face to see Akaashi beckoning him.

“I got it.” Hinata comes over from a table and takes the brush from him. He offers Kenma a smile. “I’ll finish up.”

Hinata is way too good for this place.

He starts pulling this pair of gloves off as he follows Akaashi to his office.

When he closes the door, Akaashi says, “The first word is yours.”

Kenma turns to him. His first thought is to say, _Way to leave that situation to me_ , but it’s hard to speak disrespectfully to anyone but Kuroo. Then comes the question, _Why me?_ but he already knows the answer—Ennoshita has said it already. In the end, it doesn’t really matter what he says to Akaashi. It isn’t as though it will change anything. It isn’t as though he won’t come back for his next shift anyway.

He ends up saying, “I’m too tired to say very much.”

“Then I’ll thank you for helping,” Akaashi says.

It makes frustration flare in Kenma’s chest, but anything likely would. “Right.”

“I can only apologize again.” Akaashi runs a hand through his hair, breathing a sigh.

“I don’t want your apology, Akaashi-san. I want—” _His_ was the next word, but then he remembers he’s already gotten one. At least, Kuroo has spoken one to him. It’s hard to tell just how genuine most people here are with every ulterior motive.

But Akaashi says, “I know.” Kenma looks into his sharp eyes. “Honestly, I applaud you for remaining here given all of this.”

“Most people don’t get this kind of responsibility, right?” Kenma says, acrid. “But I’m different. That’s what everyone keeps saying.”

“You have the will,” Akaashi says. He takes a step. “And we think that you…” He trails off. His brow creases and he leans unsteadily against the surface of his desk, placing a hand down to keep himself up.

At the same time that Kenma is saying, “Are you all right?” he thinks he hears Akaashi breathe, “ _Have him_.” He chooses to ignore it—he might not have even heard right. He moves toward his manager. “Akaashi-san?”

Akaashi puts out his free hand, eyes closed. “I’m fine. This place makes me anemic.” He draws in a deep breath and lets it out. The shakiness in it tugs at Kenma’s emotions. “I forget to eat. Even when I leave, I can’t stop thinking.”

All at once, Kenma feels terrible again. How selfish of him to think that the only person affected by Kuroo’s behavior is him. He said it himself tonight: Kuroo can bring all of them down. Just in different ways.

Where Iwaizumi and the chefs bear the brunt of Kuroo’s intense pressure, and where it appears Kenma is now the one dealing with Kuroo’s emotional issues, Akaashi is the one maintaining all of the logistics. Not only does he run each administrative part of this restaurant—everything that doesn’t involve the kitchen, because in the end he isn’t only the organizer and _maître D’_ but a server, too, during this phase of the game—he’s also constantly fixing Kuroo’s mistakes. The mental labor he does, the ass-kissing and the PR and the apologies and thanking everyone earnestly for their patronage… At the end of every night—at this point in Kuroo’s radical shift—Akaashi, on all fronts, is likely the most worn down of all of them.

A sudden sense of solidarity washes over Kenma. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I’ve only been thinking of myself.” He bows slightly.

Akaashi looks at him. A smile begins to pull at his lips. “There was another person applying at the same time as you,” he says. Kenma straightens up and looks back at him. “I had been thinking on it, deciding who to choose. I ended up calling you in the middle of service that night because I had this unanticipated feeling that if I waited any longer, you would find someplace else.” He turns his body, leaning back against the desk. “I picked the right one.”

Kenma laces his hands together. “I appreciate—”

“And I’m not talking about regarding him.” He flicks a hand at the door, towards the kitchen. He smiles fully, gentle and light on his tired features. “I’m just glad that you work here.”

This, at least, is truly genuine.

Kenma bows again. “Thank you very much.”

Akaashi takes another deep breath. “I’m working on it. We all are. You’ve given us a leg up.” He stands again, rolling his shoulders back, and his expression returns to his keen, serious usual. “I think he’s finally starting to break.” He starts around his desk.

This time, Kenma actually does laugh a little bit. “Everyone is so dramatic.”

Akaashi faces him, and if Kenma isn’t mistaken, the corner of his mouth curves up, just the slightest. “Who doesn’t like a little drama.”

Kenma blinks, and can only shake his head.

Akaashi sits in his chair. “Enjoy the day off, Kenma. Please close the door for me.”

Right—tomorrow is Thursday. Has it really been almost two weeks that he’s worked here?

And this is the first time Akaashi has addressed him by his given name.

He gives one final bow.

At 2:08 a.m. by the platinum clock, Ennoshita tells him he can leave. “Please do. I want you to come back, so go home.” He pats Kenma on the shoulder like he always does.

Tonight, he’ll take any chance he can get to head out. He gives Ennoshita a nod, Hinata a good night. Waves to the kitchen as he passes by to go to the mahogany cubbies.

He tucks his hair behind his ear and picks up his phone. In his messages, he sends a text to Tendou that says, _Let me complain?_ and puts his phone back down for a moment to start unbuttoning the cuffs of his sleeves.

“Reamed him out again, eh?”

Kenma looks up at Yuuji coming down the hall toward him, unbuttoning his chef’s jacket. He isn’t really interested in talking about Kuroo right now unless it’s with Tendou’s sadistic condolences. “I guess,” he sighs. He gets one sleeve open and moves to the next.

Yuuji chuckles. “I’m just using this jacket as an excuse to step out of the kitchen for two seconds.” He takes it off and swings it over his shoulder, hooked on a fingertip. “I’m glad you’re the only one back here.”

Kenma laughs once, tiredly. The sound of running faucets and garbage bags in the kitchen drowns it out. “It sucks that you guys have to stay extra.”

Yuuji shrugs. He comes to stand next to Kenma, smiling. He folds his jacket into his cubby with his keychains and leans against the wall. “After almost three years,” his eyes are watching Kenma’s sleeves as they flop over his palms, “I suppose I’m pretty used to it.”

Kenma smiles back. “I guess so.” He picks up his keys and puts them in his pocket.

“Hey, listen, Kenma.” The smile when Kenma looks up at him is an easy curve of the side of his mouth. “Don’t get pressured by this—it’s really just an idea that I can’t seem to get out of my head.” He messes with the pieces of hair that hang close to his brows.

Kenma tilts his head at him. “Yeah?” He starts to reach for his phone, his sleeve opening and falling back from the wrist where Kuroo grabbed him earlier.

Yuuji crosses his arms, gently. He smiles a little more, his eyes travelling over Kenma’s face, across his features. “Can I take you to dinner tomorrow night?”

Kenma pauses. Blinks at him. Tomorrow, Thursday, day off. Dinner with Yuuji.

Is this a joke? Is it for some hidden reason, just part of the game?

No—Yuuji is one of the few people here who has never seemed anything but genuine. From the first time they talked to each other in the pantry after Kenma’s first service here, that very first night, Yuuji has been someone he has felt like he can trust.

And he’s just standing there calmly, smiling at Kenma, waiting for his answer. His hands are far from being too close to Kenma, tucked at his sides, and he has left plenty of space for Kenma to go past him down the hall if he wanted to.

For half a second, Kenma starts to wonder if he has any plans tomorrow, and then realizes what a ridiculous thing it is for him to think. He hasn’t had plans since ever.

He blinks again. “Oh. Yes. Um, yes.”

Yuuji’s smile widens. As he talks, his piercing glimmers. “Great. I was thinking I could take you to Seventy-Eight? I’ve met Chef Kinoshita and his sous Narita before, and they run a pretty nice place. Way more relaxed than here if you’re down with that.”

Being presented with another option overwhelms him. His mind is blanking out.

Tomorrow, Thursday, day off, dinner with Yuuji. He’ll have to watch the time. Pick an outfit. _Do something._ Try anything.

“Sure, that sounds fine.”

Yuuji pushes up from the wall. “Sick. I’ll get us in at eight? I guess it counts as lunch with our schedule.” He chuckles.

Kenma looks at his face, letting his eyes move over Yuuji’s features. Short brows, a sloped nose, the shadow of his undercut. Holes in his ears where earrings could go but he doesn’t have any in. Thin and even lips, normal brown eyes. Kindness in all of it.

Has Kenma really never looked before?

He says, “I’ll meet you there.”

“Great. Awesome. Then I’ll see you tomorrow, Kenma. Or, I guess, later tonight. I’m really looking forward to it.” Yuuji grins. “Now get out of here already.”

Kenma just stares. His hand is still held up, halfway to reaching for his phone.

As Yuuji starts back down the hall, he looks over his shoulder with that easy smile on. He puts a hand out in a wave and turns back toward the noise of the kitchen.

Kenma gets his arm to move, picks up his phone. He checks the home screen, but Tendou must be asleep because he hasn’t texted him back to ask what he wants to complain about, and for a brief moment, Kenma can’t even remember what it was in the first place.

* * *

**HC: Kinoshita and Narita started their restaurant two years ago and quickly became one of the most popular in their ward. They serve modern experimental Japanese cuisine, and their sushi chef, Tsutomu, is known for putting an avant-garde flair on his rolls. No two come out exactly the same, and there is even an option on the menu that leaves your choice up to him and gives him free reign over what he creates for you. You are only required to give him your first name for this order. 78 is upscale but relaxed, more of a lounge style, lots of lights and wood, a bartender (Eita). The two lead chefs couldn’t care less about Michelin Stars.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two cats meet repeatedly in the same back alleyway and fight before the smaller one gets tired and walks away again.  
> So...can you guess who my favorite character is...
> 
> If anyone is interested, I posted a lil 2.4k [KuroTsuki](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27474622) earlier this week! (Totally unrelated to Tiger's Eye.) I'm not sure how to describe it, but my best friend called it "dreamlike". Check it out if you'd like, it's all good either way!


	14. Любовь зла. стерпится, слюбится.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _lyubov’ zla. sterpitsya, slyubitsya._

“So you’re going to dinner with tongue stud?”

“Yeah. At eight.” Kenma shifts his phone against his ear. “It’s Yuuji.”

Tendou makes a noncommittal noise. “Tongue stud suffices.”

The announcement on his train chimes and says his stop is coming up. Being in Tokyo Station is one of his worst nightmares, but taking a train from there gets him to Shin-Yokohama Station in less than an hour. It was a bizarre feeling, buying a ticket last second without having to think about it—to worry about the money. He’s nervous to see the figure on his first official paycheck tomorrow, too scared to do the math in his head in advance. He’ll probably just let Tendou open it for him again.

“We’re going to this place called Seventy-Eight,” he says. “Since when are you a skeptic?”

“I’m not skeptical, I’m shocked. It’s sudden,” Tendou says. Kenma hears him take a bite of what’s probably the chirashi he always gets from his university’s cafeteria on lunch break. He says with his mouth full, “You know that you’ve never gone somewhere with someone who wasn’t Lev or Yaku since we’ve lived together?”

“He asked me suddenly.” Kenma stands to move near the doors, taking hold of a pole with his free hand.

“Is this one hot, too? You ought to get laid.”

Kenma doesn’t grace that with an answer. He hums indiscriminately.

“And what does mister tiger executive think of it?” Tendou asks.

Does he give his students nicknames, too? Kenma tucks his arm out of the way of a few people moving near him as the train begins to pull to a stop. “I don’t think coworkers mingling is an issue.”

“That’s not really what I mea—”

“I’m about to get off my train.”

“He doesn’t know, does he.”

The doors open and Kenma starts shuffling out, ducking his head. “I have to find my way to the apartment. Thank you for being so quiet this morning.” He got home when Tendou was asleep and didn’t actually fall asleep himself for another half an hour from thinking about everything that happened during and after service, but then the exhaustion took over and he slept halfway through noon without hearing one sound from his roommate going to work, as usual.

Tendou just sighs at him over the phone. “Sure, you know me. I’m bringing this back up when we get home later before your dinner.”

“Mm. See you then.” He moves out onto the platform, avoiding anyone he can. “Oh, Tendou.”

“Uh-huh?” More chirashi.

“Turns out we get our barley at Tiger’s Eye from Wakatoshi’s farm.”

“No kidding? I’ll FaceTime him about it. He might even smile.”

Kenma heads for the station exit, pulling up his mental map of the route from here to the apartment complex. “Mm.”

Tendou says, “Talk later, heartbreaker.” He hangs up.

Kenma takes his phone from his ear and looks down at it, stopping in the middle of the platform, until someone bumps into him. He apologizes and starts for the stairs down to Yokohama proper.

The city itself isn’t that different from Tokyo to him, but he can at least appreciate the smell of the ocean. Looking out into the port is a change of pace, and he’s been to the beach a few times since Lev has a thing for ocean sunsets and playing with the ghost crabs.

He steps out from the elevator and looks out of one of the windows in the hallway. Eight stories up, he can see the port glittering in the distance, ships docked at berths and harbor cranes, and the hospital he passed ten minutes ago amongst the other buildings. With their combined income and Yaku’s rational financing, he and Lev can afford a decent place for two, and Kenma envies it a little bit as he goes to their door before remembering that, if he can last at Tiger’s Eye, a studio apartment can be only a fond memory.

Yaku greets him when he knocks, a spray bottle in his hand. “Lev, get a shirt on,” he calls over his shoulder, then smiles at Kenma. “Hey. He’s just done showering.”

“Plants?” Kenma asks, nodding at the bottle. Yaku has a row of house plants he takes care of anally.

Yaku nods back as Lev comes up behind him in a purple T-shirt, towel-dried hair as platinum as ever. Kenma looks up at him holding Ina, the orange cat they got when Kai-sensei, one of the cardiac surgeons on Lev’s floor, had kittens to give away. She was about the size of two oinarisan in Lev’s giant hands when they first brought her home. He takes care of her religiously.

Patient care really does suit them.

“She missed you,” Lev says, grinning, and Yaku swings the door wide to let Kenma in.

“You’re joking.” Yaku puts his spray bottle down with a thwack on a shelf and runs a hand through his hair. “He could have gotten somebody sick.”

“That’s what I said.” Ina purrs in Kenma’s lap where he’s crisscross on one of their tatami.

“I thought the honey thing was bad,” Lev sighs.

“I’ll say it again.” Yaku sits down next to Lev in front of Kenma. “This guy seems like a mess. Have you figured out his thing yet?”

Kenma remembers Yaku’s question over the chat: _What’s his damage?_ He shakes his head.

“But you’re toughing it out,” Yaku says flatly.

Kenma pets Ina’s head. “I need the money, anyway.”

Yaku and Lev exchange a glance. “Right,” Yaku says.

“It’s a good job. I like it. I like the guys there.” His mind flashes to Yuuji, walking away from him in the dim of the hallway, looking back over his shoulder. Later. “It’s just dredging everything up.”

“You’re doing all right, right?” Lev asks.

“No attacks lately?” Yaku adds.

Genuine concern is in their voices, not pity. He hasn’t had an anxiety attack since his first year of university, and even that one was a stray from his high school days. He’s managed it since then, even if the way to do so has been not doing much of anything. Literature is a lonely major, reading and writing all the time, with no need to go to campus for any reason aside from lecture. Tendou’s teaching schedule meant time at home for Kenma to work in peace, and even with his offhanded teasing and x-ray vision—or maybe because of them—his total-acceptance personality gives Kenma a safe place to land even when he is home.

He shakes his head. “I guess it’s just regular anxiety.”

Yaku snorts. “I think you’re allowed to get a little anxious in that place. Talk about stressful.”

“For all of us,” Kenma says. He sees Akaashi steadying himself on his desk in his mind.

“With the whole Kuroo thing,” Yaku finishes, an easy reminder.

Kenma hums, scratching behind Ina’s ear with one fingertip.

“Besides,” Lev says. “It’s probably better, like, psychologically, to be a little anxious out in the real world than perfectly fine home alone your whole life like a hermit.”

Yaku smacks the back of his head. Lev whines _Sukeee_ , but Yaku talks over it. “What he’s trying to say is—you’re at least making progress. You tried it, and you really are toughing it out, and you should be proud of that.”

Regardless of anything else, there is always, since high school, the support of his friends.

He smiles a little at them. “I don’t think my situation beats being a PCA in the emergency room, stress-wise.”

“Dude, no _kidding_ ,” Yaku says. He closes his eyes and tips sideways against Lev’s arm. “I’m so glad it’s our day off. We actually got to make a real breakfast.” His eyes open with a flicker and he says, “Get this. Yesterday this guy comes in right at the start of shift; his ear is half hanging off his head. Turns out his girlfriend caught him coming out of a host bar and ripped it off in a fight when they got home.” He laughs, punching Lev’s arm. “It was gnarly. I was cleaning crusted blood for like twenty minutes before the docs came in to sew it back on.”

When they first met, Yaku and Tendou became fast friends.

Lev groans, putting his hands to his ears. “Suke, you said you wouldn’t talk about the gruesome stuff.”

Yaku clicks his tongue and brushes a finger over the tip of Lev’s nose. “Aw, that’s nothing. Remember when—”

“There’s one more thing,” Kenma mutters.

They stop and look at him. His heart picks up a few beats.

Going over each little detail at Tiger’s Eye since the last time they talked has been enough on his nerves, but the one thing he has omitted until now is the worst. Since it happened, he can’t get a read on his own emotions about it. He sifts through the same inventory of feelings—anger, irritation, embarrassment, exhaustion, helplessness, determination, foolishness—but there’s something he isn’t landing on.

“Yeah?” Lev says, lowering his hands.

_Just say it. You know the right word for what happened_. He sighs. “He tried to kiss me.”

Ina looks up at him.

Lev sits there with wide green eyes. Yaku puts one hand on Lev’s shorts to gather the fabric into his fist, the other hand to his temple. His eyebrow twitches and he says, “So, let me make a bulleted list. He doesn’t even know who you are when you begin working because he’s drunk—sorry, _buzzed_. He toes the line of verbal harassment with innuendo. He plays with your hair. He literally gropes you. And he tries to kiss you.” His eyes flicker amber again when he levels his gaze back on Kenma. Ina gets up and goes to Lev instead.

Kenma feels his ears heat up. A soft tingle on his cheekbones and his lips. “When you lay it all out.”

“Like you haven’t been.”

“ _Did_ he kiss you?” Lev asks. Yaku shoots him a look.

Kenma sighs, watching Lev’s hand engulf half of Ina’s body when he pets her. “No. He just got really close.” His hand tries to come up to touch his mouth, but in Yaku’s presence, it doesn’t make it. “I pushed him away.”

Yaku rubs his forehead. “Well, at least there’s that.”

“It doesn’t matter anyway,” Kenma hears himself saying. The two of them stare at him, and Yaku opens his mouth to say something else, but Kenma beats him to it. “He’s done all of this to so many guys before me.” He pulls his knees to his chest and props his arms on them. “It’s not like I’m any different.”

Kuroo’s voice in his head: _I’m trying to say that…that you’re not like them._

He thinks back: _Then why are you treating me the same?_

He puts his chin on his forearms and looks at the floor in front of him.

Yaku says, “Should I just say it, Lev?”

Lev hums like he’s thinking, then says, “Yeah. You should just say it.”

Yaku sighs. “You have feelings for him. Right?”

Kenma’s body gets hot. He blinks up at his friends, lifting his head. “What?”

Yaku waves his hand, looking elsewhere, the other hand flattening back out on Lev’s thigh and resting there. “I’m not saying you’re in love with him—hell, you might not even like him. But you’ve got something on him. Or for him. I don’t know.”

Déjà vu.

Kenma sits there watching Yaku frown, take a deep breath, let it back out. He’s always been a high-strung, type A kind of person, and it comes out whenever he’s concerned with the people he cares about. He gets that way with Lev all the time.

“Obviously you have some kind of…caring for him,” Yaku says. “Not necessarily that you care _for_ him, maybe, but you care about something here. Nobody should seem so depressed over not getting kissed by their boss,” he sighs out. “And he’s all you really talk about these days. When’s the last time you played your Switch?”

Kenma wants to say that it’s the hours, he couldn’t play video games if he wanted to. But he’s not a liar. What time he has away from Tiger’s Eye is used thinking about it. Akaashi’s voice is clear from last night—or, early this morning: _Even when I leave, I can’t stop thinking._

About work, and about Kuroo.

And then Iwaizumi’s voice: _The time you spend in the restaurant ends up mattering more to you than anything else… In this industry, to be happy, the people you work with must become the people you love._

“It’s not that,” he says. “It’s just…”

“It’s cause you like to fix things,” Lev says simply.

Yaku shoots him another look and pinches his thigh, whispering, “You’re smart but you have _no_ tact.” Lev squeaks. Yaku rubs his forehead again, a migraine probably coming on. “Yeah, that,” he says to Kenma. “You’ve been an analyzer since the day I met you. But.” He looks at Kenma with something receptive and warm in his eyes—the look that makes him the perfect patient care assistant. “Do you think he can even be fixed?”

Kenma tucks his hair behind his ear. “I don’t know.” He shakes his head. “I don’t know enough. I think there’s something I need to get out of him. Whatever his thing is.”

He can feel it already: whatever it is that activates when he would get a new novel to evaluate, a new mission or puzzle to start in a game. The feeling of needing to figure it out.

_Curiosity_.

Yaku just sighs again. “I’m gonna be really honest with you. I don’t like this. I don’t think you should get involved. It seems like a lot more trouble than it’s worth.”

But worth and value are strange things at Tiger’s Eye.

_No. Don’t try to justify anything. This is all you._

Kenma just says, “I’m…”

Lev picks Ina up and kisses her nose, and she mewls in his hands, pawing at his cheek. He giggles.

Yaku watches him, smiling a little. He looks at Kenma with the warmth on his face and says, “But you’re also really stubborn if you set your mind to something, and I don’t think I’m going to change it.” Another sigh, softer this time. “You know that you probably won’t make a difference, right? If a change happens, it’ll have to be him.”

Kenma nods. “I don’t think I’m trying to. I just…want to know.”

Yaku laughs fondly. “That’s pretty selfish.”

“Just be wary,” Lev says, swaying Ina around while she tolerates him. “You never know. Stuff sneaks up on you out of nowhere.” He puts Ina back down and she patters away into their bedroom. Kenma watches her go. “Like that one proverb I learned the other day: _curiosity killed the cat_.” Lev grins. “You might catch something worse than you thought you would.”

Kenma puts his chin back on his arms and laughs once. At least Lev didn’t mix multiple idioms together this time. “And then end up moving to Yokohama with him and working the same job at the same hospital, just on different units?”

Yaku pulls an eyelid down at him. “We got what we could. Lev’s studying to go into radiology, anyway.” He huffs, exasperated. “Just make sure that what you’re doing is worth it, okay? Ultimately, it’s your decision.”

Kenma nods again. “I think I’m still deciding.”

Yaku smiles at him. “I think you’re a shitty liar.”

“I’m just beat,” Lev says. He tilts his head down onto the top of Yaku’s. “Talk about hard hours. All three of us have bad schedules.”

“At least we sync up on Thursdays,” Yaku says.

“At least we can go out later.” Lev grins at Yaku, then Kenma. “We’re gonna get Indian for dinner and then go to the Sankeien Gardens even though we’ve been twice before. I’m taking pictures of Suke whether he likes it or not.”

Yaku crosses his arms, but Kenma has never missed the blush on his cheeks over the years. “Good luck trying.”

“Mm. I’m going to dinner, too,” Kenma says.

“With Tendou?” Yaku asks, poking Lev’s side.

He shakes his head. “One of my coworkers invited me to go to a restaurant with him. Remember Yuuji?”

“The guy with the tongue thing,” Lev says. Kenma nods.

Yaku has an eyebrow raised at him. “You said he invited you to dinner?”

Kenma nods again. “Yeah.”

“How did he say it?”

Kenma thinks back. He just sees Yuuji looking over his shoulder at him again. “He said, can I take you to dinner tomorrow night.”

Yaku’s hand goes back to his forehead. “I think I just got whiplash.” He squeezes his eyes shut. “So, you’re going out with this guy, when you…” He stops.

“Yeah.” Kenma looks at them. “Dinner. Or, lunch, I guess. At eight.” He’s become fairly accustomed to his new schedule.

“Yeah,” Yaku says.

Lev is carefully keeping his mouth shut.

Kenma says, “Mm.”

“Remember when I said you’re not very deft?” Yaku wheezes.

Kenma doesn’t know what he’s supposed to answer. Yuuji invited him to dinner, and Yuuji is a kind and genuine person. Why wouldn’t he go?

“Okay.” Yaku pinches the bridge of his nose. “Lev,” he waves a hand out, “set up some tracks in Mario Kart or something. I’m gonna go take an ibuprofen.”

Lev jumps up, grinning. “Okay! Banana Cup!”

“Want anything, Kenma?” Yaku offers. He gets to his feet, standing over him. “Water? Tea? Social competence?”

Kenma blinks up at him. “What kind of tea do you have?”

* * *

**HC: Lev and Yaku met near the end of Kenma and Lev’s first year at a school event. Yaku soon graduated, but something about his former high school made him stay as a volunteer “for a better résumé”. While completing multiple consecutive certification programs in health care, he gained over two hundred hours at the school over the next two years when, to the honest disappointment of faculty, he abruptly quit following Kenma and Lev’s graduation.**

**He and Lev chose Yokohama for all of the mountains in Kanagawa Prefecture, the seafood, their hospital, and because Lev really wanted to see the cup noodles museum.**


	15. and because i did, so i know.

“As long as you have a good time,” Tendou cuffs the sleeve of the sweater he forced onto Kenma, “then that’s what matters. I always have a grand time when I go out with Waka.”

“It’s dinner,” Kenma says, holding his arm out. “It’s fine.”

“I know you walk places when you’re nervous, even if it takes forever.” He steps back to look at Kenma’s outfit. “Which is why you won’t let me drive you. Let me drive you.”

The weather is nice this evening, and Tendou is right—walking does help calm him down. Kenma shakes his head.

“Fine. You won’t notice me if I follow you, anyway.”

Kenma imagines only getting subliminal hints of Tendou’s presence behind him: a flash of red in his periphery, a tall figure under a distant neon sign that coincidentally flickers out at that moment, faint scuttling in the dark alley he just passed.

Tendou puts his hand on Kenma’s head and squeezes. “Don’t worry, I have grading to do. I’m so excited. You’re getting out there.”

“It’s dinner,” Kenma mutters again, looking sideways.

“And even if I’m confused about everything that’s going on in that place of yours since mister executive chef doesn’t even know that another of his employees is taking you to dinner,” Tendou waves his other hand around, tilting his chin up, “whatever.”

Kenma removes Tendou’s hand from his head. “I assume you’ll be awake when I get back.”

“If you come back.” He wiggles his eyebrows, the eyes under them going lidded and his mouth curling up at the corners.

Kenma leaves him for the door. “It’s dinner.”

It takes him forty minutes to get there, and by the time he comes up the last block towards where his phone says the restaurant is, he’s a few minutes late. His heart slowed down on the way, but with the nerves preparing him to apologize and the general anxiety of an interaction he’s pretty unfamiliar with, it’s picked itself up again.

He turns a corner, and across the street he can see the 78 logo in silver metal, backlit in white; people pass by and mingle at the sidewalk underneath. Yuuji is standing removed from the door, kicked back against the wall, looking at his phone.

Kenma picks up the pace, crosses the street to approach him. Yuuji looks up like he sensed him coming, waves and calls out, “Did you walk?”

“Yeah.” He hurries over, nodding. “Sorry I’m late.”

“Hardly. Don’t worry about it.” Yuuji pushes back the side of a light black coat and tucks his phone in his pocket. Deep green pants and a loose cream button-up, slightly shiny, half-tucked. The lights of the restaurant’s façade bounce off of the shirt and his skin. Undeniably, he’s a good-looking person. “You live close by?” he asks. “I should have offered to pick you up.”

“No, it’s okay,” Kenma says. “I said I’d meet you before you got the chance. And, um—sort of close.”

Yuuji chuckles. “All right. I didn’t even drive, anyway.” He smiles and his eyes flick around Kenma’s form, not for too long, but enough. “You look really great.”

Kenma looks down at himself. Tendou “helped” him pick the outfit: a pair of navy pants and a white shirt and a tan cardigan that he had to borrow from Tendou because he didn’t have anything better than a hoodie, which Tendou refused to let him wear. It’s big on him, slouchy with the sleeves rolled up, and Tendou says it’s a style but Kenma isn’t sure. Though he isn’t sure of much when it comes to going to dinner with somebody who isn’t one of his three friends.

He looks back up at Yuuji and says, “Oh. You too.”

“This cardigan tops it all off.” Yuuji motions.

Kenma feels his ears warming and looks at the sleeves, already trying to unroll past his hands. “It’s too big for me.”

“It’s really cute. Goes great with your voice.”

Pause; check inventory. His heart rate isn’t that bad, but—is he blushing? He forces himself not to put his hands to his cheeks.

Yuuji smiles. “So, I know this is totally last second, but…” He brings a hand to the back of his neck. “I was thinking maybe we could just ditch this and go get, like, street food instead? My intention was to take you somewhere nice, and of course we can stay if—”

“Sure.” He says it before he thinks. Yuuji blinks at him. “I…” he looks sideways, “never really make plans for anything.”

“Yeah?” Yuuji smiles a little wider.

“Mm.” He’s never been great at small talk or banter, but little things come to his mind in the moment. “We spend too much time in a restaurant, anyway.”

Yuuji grins. “You read my mind.” He tilts his head to the side, and in the light, Kenma can see a twinkle of small black studs in his ears. “We can head over to Ameyoko? If you don’t mind walking a bit more.”

Kenma nods, and they start down the sidewalk away from 78.

“I’d have suggested it sooner,” Yuuji says, “but I realized I don’t have your phone number.”

“Oh.” Kenma gets his phone out of his pocket. “We can exchange.”

Yuuji looks down at him, eyes bright. “Oh.”

“If you want.”

Yuuji smiles again. “Yeah.” He laughs and goes into his pocket. “I guess we all have everyone’s info, anyway.”

Kenma looks at his phone. He hasn’t gotten anybody’s contact information. Was he supposed to? “We do?”

“You don’t have anyone’s number yet? Not even Hinata’s? Or Chikara’s?”

Kenma shakes his head. His hair sways around his face in the light breeze.

“Well, then.” Yuuji takes his phone out, clicks into his contacts. He holds it toward Kenma with the same easy smile. “I’m glad to be the first.”

Kenma switches phones with him and puts his number into Yuuji’s, checking it over before handing it back. When he takes his own phone again, he looks at the screen—Yuuji’s number, and above it in the name space: _Just Yuuji._

He puts his phone in his pocket and looks up. Yuuji is looking at the new number on his phone, smiling at something. He shuts it off and puts it away. “So. Kozume Kenma.” He takes a breath and straightens as he walks, putting his hands in the pockets of his coat. “You’re twenty-two, you’re new to the restaurant business. You dye your hair, which is, like, weird, I don’t know who would do that.” He glances conspicuously at Kenma, and it makes Kenma smile. He grins and looks forward again. “And you studied literature in uni. Any particular reason why?”

The sleeves of Tendou’s sweater keep threatening to unroll. Kenma messes with them as he says, “Um. I used to read a lot more before than I do now. But I’ve really liked reading since high school. Figuring a book out, learning from the characters.” He’s trying to roll his right sleeve back up, but it won’t cooperate.

“Leave it,” Yuuji says softly.

Kenma looks at him again. He gives up, and when he lowers his hands, the sleeves unfurl to nearly his fingertips.

Yuuji smiles and says, “Yeah? Do you have a favorite book?”

Kenma sighs into the evening air, thinking back to when he was younger and a little less cynical, when his hair was still all black and he carried a bag over his shoulder from his parents’ house every morning. When nothing like these last two weeks had ever happened to him. When he had no idea what was coming.

Suddenly, the past eleven days feel like eleven lifetimes.

But right now, he has a chance to relax again.

A flash of red catches his eye as a neon sign for a soba shop flickers to life down an alley they’re passing by. A couple go in, and Kenma thinks they could go there to eat, but he’d rather just walk with Yuuji for a while.

“Well,” he says, unconsciously playing with his sleeves over his hands. “I guess it’s the one I read when I met my best friend.”

“Like, I know I’m a professionally trained chef in a three-star restaurant,” Yuuji says, “but my favorite food has to be refined white bread.” He holds out the last piece of his korokke pan.

It’s nearing ten p.m., and Kenma’s legs are starting to get tired from walking around Ameya Yokocho, stopping at different shops and carts. They shared daigaku imo with two skewers—Yuuji held it for them as they walked, and even though Kenma had to reach a little to grab his pieces and his sweater sleeves kept moving everywhere, it was still nice looking up at Yuuji while he talked. He finished a miso kyuri, crunching off little bites while Yuuji looked around for his sandwich and talked about his section in culinary school on molecular gastronomy where he realized he would never be a delicate chef: “Nothing like Tobio. I’ll just stick to swirling sauces around.” He has no shortage of questions or things to talk about, stories to tell, and Kenma is thankful for it with less of an affinity for conversation. And yet, other than covering his mouth with every bite (he’s awkward eating in front of anyone who isn’t Lev, Yaku, or Tendou, though Yuuji doesn’t seem to notice; he smiles even while he eats) Kenma isn’t overwhelmed at all. It’s comfortable with Yuuji. He is very easy to be around.

And of course, he’s paid for everything despite Kenma’s reluctance.

Yuuji laughs and says, “And it always has been.” He eats the rest of his sandwich and motions to a bench under a streetlight. “Here?”

Kenma nods and sits down next to him. The streetlight reflects off of the ichigo ame Yuuji bought for them that Kenma has been holding in his fingertips, waiting to share.

“You can have both if you want,” Yuuji says. He angles into the corner of the bench to face Kenma, propping his elbow on the back and running his hand over his hair.

Kenma pulls his feet up and sits crisscross. “It’s okay. I can’t eat two.”

Yuuji smiles at the way he’s sitting. He puts a hand up and waves his fingers in: _Then give one here._ He takes the top strawberry when Kenma holds it out, and he says, “Before I got distracted, we were talking about when I played volleyball, right?” His tongue piercing reflects, too—it has been the whole night, catching colors from around them. His tongue, his earrings, his eyes.

“Mm. That’s right.”

“We had a lot of fun, just being teenage guys,” Yuuji says. “I don’t know if we were all that good, but it was all I cared about besides dreaming of being in a rock band.” Kenma remembers him saying he played drums, too. Clicking beats against his teeth when he’s bored. Yuuji starts to bring the strawberry to his mouth, but stops and snorts. “I was actually kind of a douche back then.”

Kenma watches him bite into the strawberry. The candy cracks into pinkish shards that glitter under the lamp. When he swipes his tongue over his lips, his barbell glitters too.

Kenma blinks. “I doubt that. You were in such a high advanced class.”

Yuuji smiles at him. “I would’ve hit on you way harder back then. Like, instantly.”

_Hit on me?_ “Oh. Well…it was high school.”

A shard of candy falls onto Yuuji’s finger and he licks it off. He chuckles. “I should’ve just eaten this whole thing at once.”

Kenma clears his throat. “So then. Um. What made you choose culinary school after all?”

Yuuji shrugs, sticks the rest of the strawberry in his mouth and chews. “I’ve always loved cooking. Been good since I was really little.”

“Ennoshita mentioned you were four when you started.” He averts his eyes from Yuuji’s mouth.

“Right. So after high school, I didn’t really know what to do. Didn’t feel like trying hard enough for traditional uni and didn’t have any reasonable interests.” He laughs once. “I considered just some part-time job, thought about hair styling or something, but my mom was like, you ought to try culinary school, and my parents were willing to help with the cost. So I thought, why not? If it sucks, or if I suck,” he shrugs again, “then at least I made the effort.”

It’s an attitude Kenma wishes he had. Yuuji’s confidence and bravery—or, at the very least, nonchalance towards doing well or not—are really cool. “That’s really admirable,” he says quietly. “I wish I was courageous and unafraid of failure like you.”

Yuuji smiles, easy. “Thank you, Kenma. I think it’s great that you’re cautious. My recklessness got me in trouble a lot back then. I was smart academically but still just a dumb kid. I had a couple things on my record, broken school property…” He rubs his neck. “Well—fortunately, culinary school didn’t care. And anyway, once I got in, it straightened me out pretty quick. And they kept praising me for my palate, and I found out that I’m, like, a supertaster or something. Noya says I’m on par with his wine tasting abilities but with food.”

Kenma figures he’s the least skilled person in Tiger’s Eye. Noya is already impressive enough, and he works with wine alone. “Really?”

“I have this theory,” Yuuji leans forward a little, “that the piercing radically altered my taste buds. Like, somewhere in the healing process, they became ultra powerful. I can taste things not normally perceivable by the human mind.” It makes Kenma laugh, and Yuuji smiles again. “And so, here I am. My buddy Mattsun and I actually got hired out of our program together under Misaki Hana, but then I came to Tiger’s Eye and he went to Blue pretty soon after.”

_Four months after, I bet_ , Kenma thinks. He lifts his brows. “You have a friend at Blue?”

“Mhm. He’s the _rotisseur_ over there. Don’t tell Kuroo—I’ve kept it a secret all this time.” A chuckle. “I’ve met a couple of the other guys there, too, some night out a while back. Not the exec though; one of the servers Mattsun brought along, this pink-haired guy I think he was trying to score, and then I think the _maître D’_ was there. Good guys all around.”

“ _Maître D’_ is Akaashi’s job, right? I’m still getting the titles down.” And the pronunciation. They can’t all be Iwaizumi Hajime.

“That’s him,” Yuuji says. “Master of the house.”

Kenma nods, looking at the ground. “I feel like I understand him, but he still intimidates me.”

“He intimidates all of us, don’t worry.” Yuuji waves a hand. “He’s actually very kind, just overworked and way too intelligent for his own good. The job suits him well, though. You know how he sends every group of customers off with ‘We thank you earnestly for your patronage’? Every single group, every single night.” He snorts again. “Kuroo hates it.”

Kenma frowns. “Why?”

“I think,” Yuuji tilts his head slowly, “that he wishes he had Akaashi’s grace. Thing is, Akaashi just has fewer fucks to give. Kuroo’s really worn him out. And,” another shrug, “I think Kuroo cares more. Not that Akaashi doesn’t—it’s his restaurant, too—but it’s just a little bit less. Kuroo’s got more skin in the game.” He gazes up toward the streetlight and sighs. “I think Tiger’s Eye is kind of everything for him.”

Kenma isn’t sure what to say. He looks down at the other strawberry in his hand, glossy red. “I see.”

In his head, it’s his own voice when he was talking with Lev and Yaku: _I think there’s something I need to get out of him. I just…want to know._

He thinks back at himself: _Go away. Not while I’m here._

But Tendou’s voice counters it: _He doesn’t know, does he._

His lips start to tingle so he shoves the strawberry in his mouth.

“Hey,” Yuuji says. Kenma looks up again, strawberry in his cheeks. As usual, Yuuji is smiling gently. “You want to stop in somewhere and I can get you a drink? Grab you a beer or something?”

Despite his mouth being suddenly too dry and the strawberry he’s chewing not doing anything for it, Kenma’s first instinct is to decline. He waves a sleeve, swallows, and says, “It’s okay. You’ve already paid for everything—”

“Don’t worry about it,” Yuuji tells him.

Kenma blinks. “Oh, but—”

“Don’t worry about it, Kenma. I invited you out on purpose.”

Kenma looks at him, those same features from the hallway after last night’s service. He tucks his hair behind his ear. “Whatever you like is fine with me.” The taste of pink sugar lingers on his lips.

Yuuji’s head dips to the side a little as he looks at him. “I don’t really drink, but if you want something, I’m happy to get it for you.” His eyes flick down a little, then back up.

Kenma frowns again. “But you work at Tiger’s Eye.”

Yuuji lets out a sudden laugh, the one he did back when they first spoke in the pantry: chesty and open with his chin tilted up and that silver glint. It crinkles the corners of his eyes and the bridge of his nose. Kenma tells himself to avert his gaze again, but it doesn’t work.

“Sometimes seeing Kuroo actually helps me abstain,” Yuuji says. “Not that I’ve ever been much into it. Super special occasions only. Gotta keep this palate in top shape.” He hooks his thumb at his mouth with a grin. “But again, if you want something.”

He does. He’s suddenly so thirsty.

Ideas of what to get run through his mind, and he wonders what time it is but doesn’t care enough to check his phone. He doesn’t really want alcohol, and definitely doesn’t want to be drinking by himself. All at once, it hits him.

He turns toward Yuuji and says, “Let’s find a place to get some tea?”

The smile spreads over Yuuji’s face.

“Can I ask you something?” Kenma says. “I’ve been thinking about it for a while.”

They’re outside at a two-person table, a small café away from the crowds that happened to still be open. Genmaicha for Kenma—good, but no match for Tendou’s—and ginger tea for Yuuji.

“Shoot,” Yuuji says, looking at Kenma over the rim of his cup when he sips.

Kenma tucks both hands around his own cup and looks down into his tea, halfway gone already. “Have you ever spit in a customer’s food?”

Yuuji laughs and has to bring his cup back down. “Never. Tsukishima would kick my ass.”

Kenma nods solemnly. “So you’ve never cooked for Kuroo, then.”

Yuuji grins wide. “I might consider it if I did.” He has a sip of his tea. “You’re like, cool funny.”

Kenma can’t remember ever being called funny before. “What do you mean?”

“You’re dry. It’s refreshing.”

Boring seems more like it. Yuuji is too kind.

“Bokuto and Noya are loud, Ennoshita’s sarcastic, Hinata’s a little sheltered, Tsukishima and Kageyama don’t even know what jokes are.” Yuuji snorts. “I think Akaashi and Hajime have some kind of wit in there, but they’re too tired. You’re so blunt about things it’s refreshing.”

“Oh,” Kenma says. He thinks back to when he went into the kitchen with everyone, learning more about them. The descriptions seem fitting enough. Yuuji would know better than him.

“You know, it probably didn’t feel like it,” Yuuji says, “but it was special for you to come into the kitchen on your second day and see our stations.”

So he can read minds, too.

“It’s under the guise that you’re just getting information, but it’s a step up as a server at Tiger’s Eye.” Yuuji leans onto his elbows, holding his teacup in his hands. “No new server but Hinata has been allowed into the chefs’ space besides you, and it took Kuroo a few weeks to warm up to the idea that he wouldn’t be quitting. To give Hinata his respect as a member of the restaurant.”

Kenma almost laughs. It feels like too strong a word. “I have trouble believing he let me in because he respects me.”

Yuuji draws in a deep breath and tilts his head, looking sideways. “I have trouble understanding what he’s thinking about you at all.” He smiles a little and says, “Or maybe I understand a lot more than I want to. Maybe I get it just fine.” His voice comes out softer as he looks down. “I don’t know why I’m talking about him, anyway.”

Kenma looks down, too. “It’s all part of the game, isn’t it.”

“I don’t think it is this time. For him or for any of us.” Kenma meets his eyes. “It’s not a game anymore,” Yuuji says. “Not for a while.”

Kenma blinks, sighs, looks down again. He taps a finger against his teacup, watching ripples pulse through the yellow. “I’ve been confused. About a lot of things.” His hair hangs in his periphery. “Back on the first night, I had no idea what anyone was talking about. This code between you all, words Ennoshita kept saying that I didn’t understand. Even now, I’m still not sure if I do.”

Yuuji rubs the back of his neck. “About that. Back at the beginning. It’s…” He sighs and looks up at Kenma with a soft smile, guilt in his eyes. “There are so many losses. We’ve seen too many good guys come in, ready to do their best, only to be chased away. Ennoshita—all of us—recognized your chances the moment you came in. You needed to be there, but you didn’t _need_ it, you know? In sort of a sadistic way, we’re all rooting for you.” He shakes his head. “When Hinata stuck it out, we were all shocked and proud. He’s a great kid with the heart for this kind of thing. If he chooses to stay in this business long term, he’ll make it, probably even to Akaashi’s level someday. But you’re different from him.” He takes one hand off his teacup and speaks with it. “Hinata is here to do well for the purposes of job experience, that kind of thing. You’re here for…you. Depending on your resilience, that either makes you a very strong or a very weak contender, because either way, where Hinata is objective, you’re not.” He looks into Kenma’s eyes. “Though I imagine your resilience is doing just fine.”

Kenma feels a lump in his throat. “What do you mean? That I’m not objective?”

Yuuji smiles gently. “Well. You needed the money, right?” Kenma glances sideways and Yuuji puts his hand up. “Not judging at all. I mean, that’s why any of us take any job, and this one pays a hell of a lot.” He sighs. “But that actually seems like the only objective part of this for you. Lots of things could make you money—maybe not this much, but enough, and for a lot less trouble on your end. Hinata’s doing it whether he likes it or not because it’s his foot in the door of this field, but you’ve got more…” he thinks with his hand, making circles, “emotion in it. Freedom. Like, what do you _want_ to do, you know? You could quit any time. And here you still are.”

Kenma hums weakly.

“Something about the job,” Yuuji says, “or something in the job, made you stick around.” He smiles again. “You were great even on night one, Kenma. That’s sick. I mean, for all of Hinata’s tenacity and enthusiasm, he fumbled around, stuttered with the diners, bumped into Ennoshita twice, dropped one of Noya’s twenty-thousand-yen wine glasses.” He chuckles. “If Kuroo hadn’t chosen him for the reasons he did, he probably would have been let go from any other place. I know Akaashi wasn’t pleased, though I think he has a soft spot for him now.” He waves his hand like he’s getting off track, places it back on his cup. “The point is, you’re a natural. You…” His smile widens as he looks off toward the street. “Ennoshita has this forward march when he’s working; he commands the house, definitely. But you float around it. You look confident and collected, like you don’t need any of this, but you’re here because you _know_ you’re good at it, and it prides you and it prides him.”

Kenma watches the smile fade off of Yuuji’s face. He isn’t sure which _him_ Yuuji meant.

“And your hair does this thing,” Yuuji murmurs. “It flows out behind you. Ripples with your steps.”

Heat creeps onto Kenma’s cheeks. It seemed off the cuff at the time, back on the first night. A side note, or more of a salutation than anything else. Just one little comment: _Sick hair, by the way._

_You look really great._

_I’m glad to be the first._

_I would’ve hit on you way harder._

Is this…?

Words aren’t coming out of his mouth.

Yuuji shrugs again. “You just look like you belong there, I guess.” He brings his tea in front of him and looks into it. “I’m not the only person who thinks that.” He takes a sip.

Kenma’s heart rate is starting to increase. “What do you mean?”

Yuuji chuckles. “Your favorite question.” He draws a deep breath. “I mean that…the first line is Akaashi, the second is whether a new hire chooses to stay of their own volition. After that, it’s ultimately up to Chef. He kept Hinata around for the long term because of his work potential. I think he’s kept you around so far for…” he shrugs, “something else.” His brows pull together and he laughs strangely. “What am I saying?”

Kenma stares at him.

Yuuji glances up and immediately covers. “Not that—like, obviously you have the potential, too. I mean, you’re there already, basically. I just mean that…” He squeezes his eyes shut and runs a hand over his hair again. “That you have something about you, Kenma.”

Bokuto’s voice: _You’ve got something on him._

And what Yaku added on: _Or for him._

Yuuji is staring back. Talking faster. “I—like, Noya and Hinata and Bokuto think you’re killer, and Ennoshita considers you his protégé. Hajime and Akaashi see your capability. I like you.” He covers again. “Even Kageyama likes you, and that’s saying something. Tsukishima’s just a different story. And Kuroo—”

“Did you stay because of him?” Kenma says suddenly, too loudly. Yuuji cuts off and blinks at him, brows turned up in the middle. “Despite him?”

Yuuji lets out a breath he must have been holding. His shoulders relax down, and he nods. “Yeah. He refined me. I’m the chef I am today because of him.” He smiles at Kenma halfway. “It’s the same story you’ve heard from everyone else.”

It’s not really a surprise anymore that Yuuji knows. There are no secrets among those in Tiger’s Eye. “I guess everyone knows I’ve asked.”

All Yuuji says is, “We all know each other way too well.” He offers a conceding look. “He was better before, anyway—back when I chose to stay in the first place. It wasn’t even something we had to consider. We all just did. We wanted to. Tiger’s Eye is our place. And he’s a good guy, he just…”

“Before ten months ago,” Kenma says. Yuuji nods. “What happened?” Kenma asks, though he doubts he’ll get an answer this time, either.

Yuuji just shrugs slowly. “He just changed.”

No secrets, unless you’re Kuroo.

In the silence, Kenma drinks the last of his tea.

“I’m sorry if I was a dick with anything I said,” Yuuji says. “I’m making assumptions I probably shouldn’t. I tend to run my mouth when I care about something.”

Kenma shakes his head. “I can’t say you’re wrong. I just don’t know enough about it either.”

The smile. “I feel like you understand more than you think you do.”

It’s just the kinder version of Yaku’s voice: _I think you’re a shitty liar._

Yuuji laughs once. “Am I happy about it?” He takes a long sip of his tea.

_Is_ this…?

His heart rate goes up just a few more beats. “What do you mean?”

Yuuji puts a hand to his forehead and laughs again. “Jesus, Kenma. You’re gonna kill me with those words. With the way you look when you ask them.”

Pause. The button for checking his inventory is glitching out.

“He treats you differently,” Yuuji says simply. “Do you think if Hinata—hell, if _I_ said what you said to him, that I wouldn’t be out on my ass on that million-yen walkway—”

“You don’t give yourself enough credit—”

“Or at least have gotten a scolding in return?”

Kenma can’t say anything. None of the buttons are working anymore.

Yuuji nods at him. “You don’t give _yourself_ enough credit. He just stood there looking at you. _Nobody_ gets to him, Kenma. You did.” He pauses. He looks at his cup, and Kenma does too, and he finally realizes that Yuuji’s hands are shaking. He doesn’t have any tea left. “And I get it,” he says. “I know exactly how he feels.”

It is.

“Yuuji.”

“If anyone’s going to finally kick him into shape, it would be you, wouldn’t it? You make _me_ want to be a stand-up citizen.”

“Yuuji.” His heart is pounding.

“But I understand. I mean, I definitely don’t like it.” Yuuji laughs again—genuinely, like all of the rest of his personality. “But it isn’t about me. You can break hearts with that hold of yours.” His hand comes to his chest, swaying the cream shine of his shirt, and rests there.

Yuuji was just being kind; this whole time, that was what Kenma thought. Because he _is_ , because Yuuji is just that type of person. But maybe there was the smallest hint of an idea that this wasn’t just a friendly dinner. Maybe that was why he said yes at all.

How selfish is he?

Did he agree to this—is he doing this…because of Kuroo?

The lump in his throat won’t swallow back down. “Yuuji, I’m really sorry. I—really appreciate—”

“No, stop.” Yuuji waves the hand again, smiling as he always does. “I’ll be fine.”

When Kenma looks at him, the same words he’s always thought towards Kuroo now aim at himself: _This is pathetic._ You _are pathetic._

“I’m sorry,” he says again. Yuuji opens his mouth to speak, but Kenma cuts him off. “A lot of me wishes that I didn’t—”

_You have feelings for him. Right?_

“—didn’t—that I—”

“Kenma.” Yuuji’s hand is suddenly holding his in the air. Kenma didn’t realize he was waving it around. Yuuji lowers it to the table between them, holds it for a moment longer before respectfully pulling his hand away. “I get it,” he says. “He did it to all of us. Maybe not to this degree…” He smiles, and Kenma blushes harder than he has in a long time. He’s never been so embarrassed in his life. “But truly, I do get it. He’s taken quite the liking to you. It’s really hard not to.”

Kenma covers his face and leans back into his chair. “Yuuji, what’s wrong with me?”

Yuuji just shrugs, nonchalant about failure. But as he sees it through his fingers, Kenma understands that maybe it isn’t courage—it’s coping. The conscious choice of being unabashed for the sake of moving on. “We’re all just lunatics, in the end,” he says. “All of us there.”

“I shouldn’t have said yes to you. I led you on.”

Yuuji only looks softly at him. “I’m just happy that I got to spend time with you outside of that place.”

Kenma lowers his hands, staring at him. _Say something. Anything_. He takes a breath. “Let me try this again. If it’s—any consolation…” Another breath, consciously. “A lot of me wishes that I—” _Say it._ “—felt this way about you, too.”

Yuuji’s easy, gentle smile.

“I’ve never been asked out like that in my life,” Kenma says, putting a hand half-covered in sweater to his chest. “You’re so confident and charismatic. It really made my heart race. You’re such a good person, and I’m—losing my mind over…”

“I don’t blame you for anything, Kenma.”

At the soft sound of Yuuji’s voice, something in his chest squeezes tight. He’s selfish, pathetic, and a fool. And Yuuji is too kind. “I really am sorry.”

“And I really mean don’t be.” He smiles. “And don’t worry about work. It’s gonna be fine, yeah?”

Right. Work. Nothing at Tiger’s Eye will ever come easy. He nods.

“Yeah,” Yuuji says again, sighing, as though he’s reassuring himself. “I at least had to try. I had an idea it would turn out like this, but—”

“Yuuji, I—”

“But it would have been a mistake not to go for you.” He makes his smile wider, brighter, and Kenma watches his eyes glimmer. “This time, please let me make sure you get home all right. I can’t let you walk alone.”

Kenma stares at him, at each of his features. Everything that’s just Yuuji. He says, “Okay.”

In the car Yuuji gets for them, it’s only as awkward as Kenma feels. Even with everything that was said, Yuuji is still far too comfortable to talk to, depressingly effortless to be around. His maturity makes Kenma feel both ashamed and at ease. For the entirety of the ride, Yuuji keeps his hands respectfully in his lap, talking with them once in a while.

Kenma looks out the window as they pull to a stop. “I live with my roommate. He should be up.” The light in their window is on. He looks back, and Yuuji nods. Kenma glances sideways. “You probably have a nice place to yourself.”

“My mom and I take care of my grandmother.”

Kenma blinks at him. He angles his face down. “I’ll stop assuming from now on.”

“You can do no wrong, Kenma,” Yuuji says gently. He smiles.

Whatever is in Kenma’s chest squeezes hard again—so hard it’s alarming.

“Sit tight,” Yuuji tells him. Kenma watches him unbuckle, leave the car, and come around to open the door for him. He leans down to smile at him again. “The lynx arrives.” He displays an arm out toward the sidewalk.

Kenma feels a smile pull onto his cheeks. He laughs, shaking his head. “Noya is persuasive.” He thanks the driver and gets out.

“Would it be cool if I hugged you goodbye?” Yuuji shuts the door.

His heart does a heavy thump against his ribs. “Yeah.”

Yuuji draws him into the hug and Kenma blinks over his shoulder. The arms around him stay in a neutral place, steady in the middle of his back, but aren’t shy. He presses firmly against Yuuji’s front, arms over his shoulders, and for some reason, it doesn’t bother him at all.

The arms loosen, and Yuuji pulls back enough to place a kiss on Kenma’s cheek. Kenma feels the modest warmth of his lips very briefly before Yuuji stands up and away from him.

“Jesus, sorry if that was weird.” Yuuji pushes his hair back, closing his eyes and shaking his head at himself. The frown pulling his brows together doesn’t suit him.

A smile twitches at Kenma’s cheeks again. “No. It’s okay.”

“Oh.” Yuuji sighs in relief. “Okay. Sick.”

Kenma laughs quietly. “Thanks for dinner. Really.”

Yuuji gives him a nod, or a bow of the head. “Of course. Thank you for…” He trails off.

Kenma looks up at him. “See you tomorrow?”

“Yeah.” The smile. “I’ll see you.”

Kenma turns to go.

“And,” Yuuji says, “maybe I ought to cut my losses but—” Kenma turns back to him and he puts his hands in his pockets. “I think we’ll all have a better time if you can get to him even more than you already have.”

For the first time all night, Kuroo’s face flashes into Kenma’s mind with perfect clarity. An upward three-quarter angle, his jaw tilted, his lips parted like he’s about to speak, an orange light in his eye. Under his bangs, the other eye is just barely visible, or else Kenma’s memory is fooling him.

“I’ll…do my best,” he says dumbly. He almost says something worse: _If it doesn’t work out, maybe we can try again?_ But that wouldn’t be fair. Not to Yuuji. He has to make a choice, and he’s probably making the wrong one.

He says nothing else.

Yuuji chuckles. “Get some rest, okay? We’ve got that place to suffer again tomorrow.”

He doesn’t know why, but it makes him laugh— _actually_ laugh—and Yuuji grins. “Great,” he says with an exaggerated eye roll.

“Right? Spare me.” Yuuji waves to him and starts back for the car. “Have a good night, Kenma.”

Kenma waves back, small by his side. “Good night.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Mm.”

The studs in Yuuji’s ears catch a flash from the streetlight before he shuts his door and is driven away.

When Kenma opens the door to their apartment, Tendou is leaning onto the kitchen counter with his hands laced under his chin, eyes lidded. “You’re pulling one hot guy after another, aren’t you? Did he kiss your cheek or am I losing it?”

Kenma closes the door behind him. Kicks off his shoes. Stands there. “He did. Tendou, I feel like crying for some reason.”

“Uh-oh.” Tendou straightens up. “Bad date?”

Kenma shakes his head at the floor. “Perfect, actually.”

“But?” Tendou steps around the counter. “ _Are_ you gonna cry?”

“No. I just feel like it.” He shakes his head again. No matter how hard he tries, he’s not going to be able to push tonight away, this stupid decision he’s making. He slots it into a deep part of his inventory that he rarely opens. “It’s not him. I’m an idiot.”

Tendou sighs and scratches his head. “You like mister tiger exec, don’t you.”

Kenma just looks at him.

“And you think he likes you back.”

_I think it’s the other way around._

Tendou walks toward him. Kenma watches him approach and then is engulfed in Tendou’s arms. Tendou lifts him off the ground and carries him with his arms and legs dangling to the kitchen. He stands him in front of the counter. “Chamomile it is.”

“Don’t ever do that again.”

“Extra strong. Double steeped. I’ll set an alarm.” He turns to get his kettle.

“What am I doing,” Kenma breathes.

Tendou laughs, reaching into the cabinet for his collection of loose tea. “I don’t know. Tongue stud is hot _and_ perfect?” He whistles. “You’ve got something going on, huh. What’s up with the exec anyway? What’s his thing?” He looks over his shoulder, and for a moment, Kenma’s mind tricks him into thinking Tendou’s pupils are red, too. “What’s got you hooked?”

He realizes that it’s the same answer as everybody else: he just doesn’t know.

“Knock me out,” he says. “I don’t want to think anymore. Make it so I don’t even dream.”

A smile curls the corners of Tendou’s mouth. “Done and done.”

* * *

**HC: Yuuji’s grandmother has dementia. She doesn’t remember him, but always wants him around. A significant portion of his salary from Tiger’s Eye goes to her private care because he didn’t want her to be in a home; he lives well below his means in service of her safety. Her favorite color is yellow. He actually does have a place to himself—his apartment is next door to the one he pays for his mom and grandmother to stay in. Even if Kenma had been for it, Yuuji wouldn’t have asked him home on their first date. And either way, he knew that the moment he did ask, Kenma would have realized that there is probably only one person he might say yes to, and it isn’t him.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Korokke pan: croquette bread/sandwich; literally a roll with a croquette in it  
> Daigaku imo: “university potatoes”; fried sweet potatoes with a sweet glaze  
> Miso kyuri: cucumber with miso and sesame  
> Ichigo ame: strawberries with a hard candy shell  
> Genmaicha: green tea brewed with brown rice kernels; a warm, nutty flavor
> 
> Once again, I have had the pleasure of working with Kurr_Dappya on Twitter for another beautiful art piece, this time of [Yuuji](https://twitter.com/revel__ry/status/1329802300718772234). Please go check her out, she has an incredible style. (One of her recent pieces was a TanaKiyo, SO gorgeous. Support their zine if you're interested!)


	16. und auf einmal, stehen wir vor dem abgrund.

Waking up from his chamomile-induced coma resets his mechanics. Walking up to door number two, shell cordovan shoes comfortable on his feet by now, his inventory buttons are finally working again. He tells himself that the reason he feels okay today is not because he’s avoiding pressing them.

“I’m here,” he calls as he approaches the kitchen. Bokuto and Iwaizumi greet him; Kageyama is with Akaashi in the office for baking inventory. He looks at Tsukishima, busy shucking a bucket of scallops. Under the gloves he’s wearing, his fingers aren’t bandaged anymore.

Kenma will have to walk past Yuuji’s station to get to the house.

_And don’t worry about work. It’s gonna be fine, yeah?_ Yuuji is mature, and civil, and kind. Kenma keeps his feet moving and gathers a little courage. Quietly, he says, “Hey.”

Yuuji lifts his head to look at him. Nothing about it is different—no embarrassment or awkwardness, hurt or shame, no ill will. It’s the same smile as always, the same steady gaze into Kenma’s eyes. “Hey.”

Relief washes over him. He smiles back, tucks his hair behind his ear, and moves through into the house.

Hinata greets him. “Kenma-san! I’m so—” He stops and lowers down to a whisper, glancing toward the kitchen. “I’m so glad you came back. I thought for sure you’d…”

Kenma offers a small laugh. “It’ll take more than some raw foie gras to run me off.”

Hinata grins so widely his eyes close. “It wasn’t the foie gras I was worried about.”

It hits Kenma that he is going to see Kuroo again very soon. He isn’t here yet—he’ll be late, as usual—and it hadn’t crossed Kenma’s mind as he came in, or earlier this morning. Either that, or he was actively not thinking about it.

_You have feelings for him. Ri—_

“Hinata.”

Hinata blinks up at him. “Hm?”

“Give me some tips. I want to try racing you again.”

It takes his mind off of it for the fifteen minutes maximum it takes Hinata to clean three quarters of the tables. By that point, it’s past three p.m., but it’s not like he’s checking the platinum clock.

“You’ll have to do better than that,” Ennoshita says. Kenma looks over at him as he shakes his head gravely, arms crossed, leaned back against Noya’s counter to “judge the race”. Hinata wouldn’t allow him to enter, and Kenma didn’t bother trying.

“Even with Shouyou’s pointers,” Noya says, leaning over the counter from the other side, “you’re still not up to par with his natural ability.”

Hinata brandishes orange-scented wipes above his head in victory. The lid is the same color as his hair.

Kenma sends him a smile and the other two a deadpan.

The door to Akaashi’s office opens and Kageyama steps out first. He glances at Hinata with his arms raised in the air and heads back around the open wall to the kitchen.

Akaashi steps through the threshold but doesn’t close his door. “Everyone,” he calls.

They all turn to him. Hinata puts his arms down.

Akaashi lifts his phone up in his hand. “You’ve all seen it, yes?”

Everyone around Kenma nods as the air in the restaurant shifts. Tsukishima pushes up his glasses. Iwaizumi looks down at his knife.

“We’re not going to gather for it,” Akaashi says. “There’s no point, and I have nothing to say to the rest of you except that I appreciate you finishing service appropriately.” He glances at Kenma when he says, “Just go on as you would.” The look in Akaashi’s eyes is sharper than usual. His typically smooth, airy voice comes out flat. He says to the room, “Trust me to handle it.”

“Yes, sir,” the chefs say in unison.

Akaashi looks at Tsukishima. “Send him in to me.”

Tsukishima nods once, silent.

Akaashi sighs. He looks at Kenma one more time, and Kenma isn’t sure what to read in his eyes. He turns back to disappear into his office again.

After a silence, Yuuji says, “Yikes,” and Bokuto chuckles, and the brigade in the kitchen go back to where they were.

“He wants you in there.”

Kenma startles at Ennoshita’s voice right next to him.

Ennoshita adjusts his gloves as he speaks in a hushed tone. “When Chef shows up, just go in with them.”

“Is that…” He makes the mistake of glancing toward the kitchen. He meets Tsukishima’s gaze directly before he turns away with a flash of lenses. “Okay?” Kenma finishes.

Ennoshita’s elbow nudges into his side. “Don’t look for an excuse. You’re effective against him. Akaashi’s new weapon.”

Is that title supposed to make him feel good? What point is there in having a level of power over someone who you just want to be on equal grounds with?

But for that, they’d have to value each other equally, too.

He looks down and his hair falls in his face. “Don’t say it like that.”

Ennoshita just hums. “He lets his guard down with you.”

There’s nothing Kenma can say to it. Instead, eventually, he asks, “Was there something I was supposed to have seen on my phone?”

Ennoshita blinks at him. “We ought to get your number in our contacts,” Ennoshita says. “We send reviews out to everyone when they get published.”

Right. Nekomata.

He thinks of exchanging numbers with Yuuji last night, but Yuuji probably felt uncomfortable texting him right away, or thought that he might be uncomfortable with it. Another good word for him: considerate.

“All you need to know,” Ennoshita pushes his hair back from his face, “is that it wasn’t that great.” He puts his hands on his hips. “It was your table he ruined anyway; you might as well join in on Akaashi’s beratement.”

The back hallway draws Kenma’s attention. His eyes land on the handle of door number two. “How much trouble is he in?”

With his usual chuckle, Ennoshita follows his gaze and says, “I guess that depends on how you see it.”

The handle twists, and the door swings open. Kenma watches Kuroo make his way in: jacket over one elbow, the other hand in his pocket, face angled down, shoulders tense in his T-shirt.

Kenma’s heart jumps against his chest, a quick burst of adrenaline and a cold wave out through his limbs.

Kuroo shoves a set of keys into the cubbies and comes down the hallway without looking at anyone.

Bokuto—brave, or just Kuroo’s friend since childhood—says, “Afternoon, Chef.”

“Don’t give me that,” Kuroo mutters.

Bokuto eyes him as he walks into the kitchen. “Don’t be a dick,” he mutters back.

Kuroo lifts his chin. The fluorescents wash him out, or else he’s just paler, less color to his skin than there was two days ago. Faint shadows under his eyes. A thick, low voice. “Don’t start this with me, Bo. I walk in and two seconds later you’re on my back for—”

“Akaashi wants you in his office.”

It’s quiet as Kuroo turns to face Tsukishima. He says nothing.

Tsukishima adjusts his glasses and says, “Go on.”

Kuroo opens his mouth, but shuts it again.

Noya appears next to Kenma and Ennoshita. “He sure does love to pout.” He goes past them and slings his arm over Hinata’s shoulders. “Come grab the silver with me.”

Kuroo begins to round the pass towards Akaashi’s office. He drops his jacket on the metal counter as he walks by.

Kenma glances at him, glances at Noya. Noya nods to him: _Go on_. He looks toward the kitchen, for some reason trying to find help there, but he happens to land on Iwaizumi. The chef just looks back at him, then closes his eyes with a nod and turns his face away.

So, when Kuroo passes through the doorway into the office, Kenma follows.

“What?” he hears Kuroo saying as he steps in. He closes the door behind him before Akaashi has to ask. At the click of the latch, Kuroo turns with his arms crossed and lands his frown on Kenma instead. His expression twitches and he blinks, turning back to Akaashi. “What is this?”

“You know what we’re talking to you about, Tetsurou,” Akaashi says. “You had your day to cool off.”

The words float over to Kenma and land on his shoulders. _We._

Akaashi tilts his head at him. “Come in, Kenma.” _This is your job now, too._

Kenma lets his eyes slip closed for a brief moment before he makes his way to where the two of them stand facing each other from either side of Akaashi’s desk. He moves to face the end of it, the neutral position between them, though it’s laughable to even call it that. He’s torn halfway between siding with Akaashi and the restaurant—the logical, rational, appropriate side—or…

“You read Nekomata’s review,” Akaashi says to Kuroo.

Kuroo crosses his arms tighter. It seems childish, but looking at Kuroo’s figure, it’s hard to say he isn’t a man, at least physically.

_Really?_ It’s Yaku’s proverbial, annoyed voice in his head. _That’s what you’re thinking about?_

“It wasn’t exactly gleaming,” Akaashi says evenly. “Because of your temper and your pride, you put all of us in danger.”

“It’s not like I shoved it down your throats,” Kuroo spits back.

Kenma looks up at Kuroo with narrowed eyes. Akaashi does the same. “I’m not talking about our health, Tetsurou,” Akaashi says. “I’m talking about our livelihood. Raw meat is the biggest offense you could make in this industry.”

Kuroo’s lips pull into a sneer. “The first one Hajime sent out—”

“Stop it.” Akaashi looks him straight in the eyes and holds his gaze, unblinking. Almost imperceptibly, Kenma notices Kuroo lean back. “You should be incredibly grateful that Nekomata didn’t have us shut down,” Akaashi says. “You’re lucky that he’d been here before and saw you back then. If he were new to this restaurant, he would have torn you apart. He didn’t mention your incident—he _saved_ you—because he pities you.”

_No more pity. No more._

It’s warm in the room. Kenma locks his hands behind his back.

Kuroo doesn’t seem to have a reply.

“And to put that kind of pressure on Kenma,” Akaashi adds. Kenma’s ears heat up. “It’s his face you threatened by doing that during his service. He followed every rule and did everything right with Nekomata’s singular complaint, and you were the one who caused the issue.”

Kuroo’s eyes flick to Kenma standing there. He looks down and says, a mutter, “And you?”

“Don’t corner him.” Akaashi keeps his eyes trained on Kuroo’s face.

Kenma doesn’t miss, almost imperceptibly, the blush creep onto Kuroo’s cheeks.

“He works very hard for you,” Akaashi says low. “So does Hajime. So do I, and everyone else.” His gaze finally breaks and his eyes close. He brings a hand to his forehead and presses his fingertips there. The other goes to the surface of his desk.

Kenma flashes to what Akaashi said here before, to the way he swayed on his feet and had to steady himself on the desk. All of that—all of _everything_ —because of Kuroo.

“Akaashi-san,” he says.

Akaashi shakes his head. “I’m fine.” He draws in a deep breath, straightens up, and looks at Kuroo again. “I’ve personally written Nekomata a deep apology and a sycophantic thank-you. I did it on your behalf, and on behalf of the restaurant.”

There’s a pause. Kenma looks between the two of them: Akaashi weaker in body but strong in affect, and Kuroo the other way around. His arms across his chest have loosened just the slightest.

Kuroo looks sideways. “What do you want me to say?”

“I want you to thank me, Tetsurou.”

Kuroo doesn’t.

Akaashi waves a hand like he didn’t expect it anyway. “I don’t care if you do it aloud or in your head. Be thankful that I’m here to clean up after you, and that you have a kitchen and house to back you even in your endless mistakes.” He glances at Kenma, then looks back at Kuroo. “As your friend, I’m telling you that it’s getting to be too long now. As your manager, I’m warning you that you need to start walking lightly.”

Kuroo looks back at him, then down at the desk.

Akaashi sighs once more. He nods. “That is all. I’m going into the house. Kenma, you have a few minutes.”

He rounds his desk, passes behind Kenma, and leaves the two of them in the office alone.

The door shuts out the noise from the kitchen. For an eternal moment, neither of them says anything or looks at the other. Kuroo keeps his arms crossed, and Kenma keeps his hands behind his back.

Eventually, Kuroo says, “Well?”

Kenma looks up at him. “Well what?”

“Isn’t it your turn?”

Kenma lets his arms come to his sides. “Do I really need to say something to you that you already know?”

Kuroo’s face changes, softening out from anger to that same desperation—a frustrated version with his brows still pulled together. He makes a noise in his throat, struggling to think, or to say what he wants. He angles his face away. “I’m sorry I ruined your service.”

_His_ service? It’s not him—it’s everyone.

The heat of his own anger wells in his chest again. It seems to happen often when he’s talking to Kuroo. “You couldn’t even apologize to Akaashi.”

Defiance creeps onto Kuroo’s features. “For what.”

Kenma’s frown deepens. “Why does it matter? The fact that you’re wondering is something else, but in the end it shouldn’t even matter. He asked for an apology. That’s what for.”

“So you two get to corner _me_ , then.”

Enough. _God_ , that’s enough. He’s trying to communicate with somebody who makes no effort in return.

Whatever nervousness there was with Akaashi present is gone. Whatever leftover anxiety existed from all of Kuroo’s past approaches with him doesn’t anymore. He’s too sick of it. Everything Kuroo does makes him so tired.

So why does he care so much?

He takes a step closer to Kuroo. “Listen to what you’re saying.”

Kuroo looks down at him. His visible brow always betrays him—lifted in the middle.

“This is _your_ restaurant, Kuroo.” His name again, instead of Chef. “It’s all your responsibility. Be responsible.”

Kuroo turns away suddenly, taking a few steps and bringing his hands up to his face. He groans. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry that…” He turns back around with his eyes squeezed shut. He rubs one hand over his forehead, under his bangs, before it falls pathetically back down. “That I give you this impression of me.”

It clenches painfully behind Kenma’s ribs.

Subconscious Yaku again: _No way. Now? At that?_

_Right?_ Subconscious Tendou. _He has the worst taste._

Kenma averts his eyes to the floor. “You’re not giving me anything else,” he says, too quietly. “If it’s miscommunication, or the restaurant, or… I don’t understand. I know it’s in you. Just…”

“Please tell me what you think of me, Kenma.”

When Kenma looks back up, Kuroo, hardly two meters away, is staring at him as he always does when he becomes maudlin and wallowing. It shouldn’t pull at Kenma’s feelings. It shouldn’t.

“I told you I don’t know.” _I’m confused. I want…_

They keep staring at each other. The last time they said those words, Kuroo got very, very close. Kenma can feel it between them again. He can see it in Kuroo’s face—his one dark, unhidden eye. The desperation to close the distance.

With a sway of his hair, Kenma turns his face to the side. “Don’t.” _Not right now_.

Kuroo looks at the ground. His lips part, but as usual, they say nothing.

Kenma closes his eyes, takes a deep breath. Opens them again to look at nothing. So this will end how it always does, then. With him choosing to walk away first.

“Just talk to Akaashi later.” He turns for the door, preparing himself to put his usual face back on the moment he steps through. “I promise you’ll feel better if you do. It feels better to just…be good.” He puts his hand on the knob. “And apologize to your best friend, too.” He pulls open the door and steps back out.

He crosses the threshold into the house and pulls the door ajar to leave Kuroo to himself. The weight of being in that room with everything that was said is supposed to lift off of him now that he’s back to work, but it doesn’t.

Akaashi catches his eye from near the front doors.

It all feels stupid. Stupid that Kenma is here, stupid that he lets things get to him. Stupid because when Kuroo asked him to speak, he _couldn’t_ think of what to say, because something is getting in the way now. Stupid because he wanted to say something better. It’s what he said to Tendou, Yaku, and Lev over the chat— _I want him to be better_ —and yet he didn’t say anything to help it. He doesn’t have the presence or the prowess; he’s only ever had words, but Kuroo isn’t a man of them. Platitudes and bytes of shallow positivity cut out from random counseling sessions in the past won’t be good enough. Standing in front of Kuroo and the way Kuroo looks at him, he feels ineffective, annoyed by the repetitive nature of their conversations, if what they keep doing can be called that. The push and pull of Kuroo’s attitude, the wax and wane of his mood—and yet none of it feels like it’s actually him.

But with everyone else around, all the opinions the others have of him and of Kuroo, it’s too hard to see anything else. Their expectations weigh heavy on Kenma, but maybe they weigh even heavier on their executive chef.

For once, he just wants to talk to Kuroo truly, totally alone. It’s the only way he can see it making any difference, and it needs to happen soon. Like Akaashi said, it’s been too long now.

He takes another breath and goes to the table where Hinata and Ennoshita are shining silver.

“Okay?” Ennoshita asks. Hinata just looks up at him walking over.

Kenma doesn’t answer one way or the other. He pulls out a chair and sits with them.

Ennoshita holds something out in his hand. It’s a pair of black cloth gloves, silk blend, worn in though they were new twelve days ago. He didn’t realize he hadn’t put them on yet.

He takes them, pushing his fingers through. “Thanks.”

Behind them, Kuroo exits Akaashi’s office and goes to the kitchen.

“Try not to think too much about it,” Ennoshita says softly.

It’s partly annoying— _Am I the new weapon or not?_ —but he’s also a little thankful. A little.

“Look at Bokuto,” Ennoshita says. “He never thinks and he’s always happy.” Hinata giggles.

Kenma looks through the open wall toward Bokuto’s station where he’s chopping something with that knife of his, those skilled hands. Kuroo, jacket on, puts a hand on his shoulder as he walks past him. It’s impossible to know for sure, but Kenma thinks he squeezes before moving away down the hall.

Bokuto offers the back of Kuroo’s head a slight smile. Kenma reads his lips, even if Bokuto doesn’t say it out loud: _You too, man._

“I used to know some really mean guys back in school,” Hinata says. Kenma and Ennoshita look at him. He grins, rubbing a spoon with the cloth in his hand dipped in polish. His smile is big and symmetrical, his nose slightly upturned.

“Yeah?” Ennoshita says.

Kenma pushes his gloves securely between his fingers.

Hinata nods. “Yeah. Chef isn’t mean. He’s just down.”

Kenma looks at the basket of utensils in the middle of the table.

Ennoshita chuckles. “You pronounced _a mess_ wrong.” He reaches across the table and ruffles Hinata’s hair with his knuckles.

Kenma picks up his cloth and reaches for a knife.

He takes his phone back when Noya holds it out. The extra hour the servers get to leave before the chefs has basically dissipated away, and with most of the others already headed out by now, that makes almost everyone’s phone number in his contacts. He’s only missing Bokuto, Akaashi, and one more.

“Thank you.” He puts his phone in his pocket.

“He’s being a pain in the ass,” Noya sighs. “It’s one thing for him to get mad and throw stuff at the customers.” He digs into his pocket and comes back with a watermelon lollipop. “But it’s another thing when he starts acting like he doesn’t care. Giving us a shitty service like that.” He starts to unwrap it.

Kenma hums back.

The problem with service was that there weren’t any. Tsukishima ran the kitchen almost entirely on his own while Kuroo wandered around mechanically, plucking rose petals for Kageyama, julienning celery for Bokuto, peeling beets and opening cooking wine and taking the skins off shallots. He didn’t say anything bad to the chefs or customers because he barely said anything at all.

Something Iwaizumi told him reappears in Kenma’s mind: _…it digs you into the ground. It’s oppressive, stressful, and snuffs out the creativity you thought you had. You feel like a machine._

“That’s the kind of attitude that gets restaurants shut down,” Noya says, stretching an arm up over his head. “If the executive chef doesn’t give a shit anymore—” He slashes his thumb across his neck. “That’s us done.”

In Kenma’s head, Tendou stands at the podium in his infomercial again. He’s still holding up the _How To Run A Restaurant_ book, still open to the page that says NOT LIKE THIS. He says to the watching audience, _So then, let’s take a look at step one!_ He flips the page, and the camera cuts in to a close-up shot on the words: _1._ _Support your team!_ scribbled out with thick black marker. As it pans back out, it reveals instead, handwritten beneath it: _1\. Actually do your job._ Tendou is grinning at the lens. In the pocket of his blazer is a black Sharpie.

“Word’s already getting around that he’s turned into a jackass and a creep these past couple months.” Noya sticks the lollipop in his mouth, his hands in his pockets, and looks up at the sky. “So it’s a real pain in the ass.” He sighs again, and his gaze lowers back down to look into Kenma’s eyes. “But I guess you’ll do something about that.”

Somewhere around eleven p.m., Akaashi passed by Kenma waiting at the pass, watching Yuuji reduce blood red sherry with deft flicks of his wrist. Akaashi moved through the kitchen toward cold storage, but Kuroo stopped him at the back. Kenma waited for the apology—those words that, for some reason, Kuroo only says to him. Instead, Kuroo said, _I’m staying late tonight._ Akaashi nodded to him. _Whatever you want, Tetsurou._

“So I guess that means I’ll have to let this guy down.” Noya hooks a thumb over his shoulder and Kenma sees Asahi pulling into the lot. “He likes talking to you when we take you home.”

Kenma bows his head a little. “Sorry. I appreciate it.”

Noya shrugs. “Next time.” He steps off the curb as Asahi swings around, waving through the open window. Kenma waves back. “Work your magic, lynx,” Noya calls.

If he had any magic, this would all have been over a long time ago.

He’s left alone for a minute after they drive off. He looks at the two cars left in the lot—Lexus, Acura. He supposes Bokuto will be leaving with Akaashi again.

His mind is turning, trying to think of what he’ll say, what magic he can actually work. Yesterday-Yaku has the only words he can think of: _You know that you probably won’t make a difference, right? If a change happens, it’ll have to be him._

Very encouraging. Very realistic. Very Yaku.

They will have just started their shifts at the hospital right now. He’ll visit them again soon; he has the money for it. Next Thursday seems a long way off.

He stands there on the edge of the curb.

The door opens behind him. A rich smell wafts out that he recognizes as the Kobe searing in a pan. For a moment he wonders if the smell is just left over from service, but it isn’t quite the same—there are notes of other ingredients that aren’t used regularly in that dish.

He turns to see Akaashi walking out.

“You’re not gone,” Akaashi says. He laughs—a sound that’s extremely tired—and says, “You’re not going.”

“Did he apologize to you?” Kenma asks.

“In his own way.” Akaashi reaches into his bag. “I have a spare if he’s late tomorrow,” he pulls out a ring of keys and takes one off, “but please make sure he actually remembers to lock the door.” He faces Kenma and holds the key out. It glints silver under the streetlamp.

Kenma takes it from him, cold between his fingertips. “I will.”

Bokuto exits the door, sighing loudly with his chin up and a hand pushing his hair back. “That bastard. Trying a combo move ten months too late.”

Akaashi looks at him. “Ready?”

Bokuto slumps his shoulders. “Yeah.” He holds his chef’s jacket dangling in one fist. “Later, kid. Kick his ass. The old one-two.” He sighs again.

Akaashi offers to carry his jacket as they walk to his car. Kenma can get their phone numbers another time.

So even Bokuto, ever the moodmaker for the kitchen, didn’t have a good night.

“And it all comes down to you,” Kenma murmurs, looking at door number two. He pockets the key and walks back into Tiger’s Eye.

The smell hits him immediately, strongly—a savory warmth with notes of bitter, salty, and sweet; the sharpness of vinegar but the mild coolness of heavy cream; elements of multiple dishes Kenma carries out to customers every night. It smells divine.

_I’m told he’s an incredible chef._

_You’re_ told _? Haven’t you seen him cook?_

Kuroo is at Iwaizumi’s station with a cast iron pan on a burner. In the moment that Kenma approaches, Kuroo switches off the heat and removes the Kobe from the pan, setting it to rest on a cutting board beside the stove. He puts down the tongs he used and turns around.

He notices Kenma there and flinches. “What are you doing here? Go home.” He moves around the center stations and over to Kageyama’s. He picks up a metal bowl with a whisk sitting in it and looks into it.

“Akaashi is entrusting me with the door,” Kenma says back.

Kuroo tucks the bowl into his elbow, takes the whisk in hand and starts whipping whatever is in the bowl. “Of course he is.” He mutters, “He doesn’t trust me anymore.”

The countertops are a mess. One dusted in flour, another stacked with pans, bottles of oils and vinegar and wine, spices everywhere. The box of honey thyme seasoning sits open at Bokuto’s station.

“You’re cooking,” Kenma says. It comes out sounding almost surprised.

Kuroo just says, “Mm.”

He’s in his chef’s jacket, the sleeves shoved up to his elbows. Kenma watches him whipping whatever ingredient it is, whatever element of the dish he’s making. His forearm is tense, a vein running from his wrist up under his sleeve.

“Come taste this.”

Kenma blinks at him. “Me?”

Kuroo lifts the whisk from the bowl and watches light, sakura-pink cream drip from it. “Who else.”

Kenma steps into the kitchen. His heart beats a little harder as he moves toward Kuroo. Kuroo holds the whisk out. Up close, Kenma can see that the cream is slightly foamy. “How?” Kenma asks.

Kuroo shrugs. “You can lick it for all I care. It’s not like anyone’s going to taste this but us.”

Us _._

Kenma chooses to swipe some onto the pad of his finger instead. Hidden under his hair, the tips of his ears burn, but he licks the cream away. Like the honey from his first night, it spreads over his tongue, a bright flavor that tastes just like the color it is, smooth but slightly bittersweet, with the barest hint of acidity. “It’s good,” he says. “What is it?”

Kuroo looks at the whisk. “Reduced cab sauv, tarragon, heavy cream, and a bit of Greek yogurt.” He looks into Kenma’s eyes and says, “How long has it been since I put the steak to rest?”

The intensity of his one eye strikes Kenma. It’s the same feeling he had just before his first service, when Akaashi pulled them all together to go over their diner information for the night. The feeling that _this_ is the executive chef.

“I’m not sure,” he says. “Maybe a minute and a half.” He doesn’t have Iwaizumi’s sense of time.

“Hm. Maybe two.” Kuroo moves back toward Iwaizumi’s station, placing the bowl on the plating counter as he goes.

Now that Kenma is in the kitchen, he realizes there are multiple elements of the dish waiting there in their respective pans. The Kobe must be the final, central piece.

“Do you mind if it bleeds out a little?” Kuroo asks him, facing away. “I can slice it now.”

The fact that Kuroo is asking him makes his skin prickle with goosebumps. What is it they’re doing right now? “No,” he says, “I don’t mind.”

“You can sit on the counter if you want. I don’t care.”

“Okay.” His voice comes out a little raspy. He pushes himself up onto the counter and puts his hands between his knees. What are they _doing_?

For the next minute, he watches as Kuroo plates his dish. He lays the Kobe down in the center of the plate, three generous slices, seared dark on the very outer edges and vivid medium-rare pink through the middle. Next to it go two pieces of pasta stuffed with a whitish filling, and a spoonful of thinly-sliced shallots sautéed with a mixture of flavors Kenma can’t yet recognize. Kuroo’s hands are steady, longer fingers than Kenma ever noticed, and his plating is indeed delicate. The frown on his face is an intense look of concentration, and there’s a light sheen of sweat at his brow. A few individual strands of his bangs stick to his forehead.

The final element to the dish is a quenelle of the cabernet sauvignon cream quickly formed between two metal spoons and placed gently atop the center of all of the ingredients, light and airy. It’s beautifully done by one chef alone, a good match for the other dishes the chefs here put out, even with fewer elements overall.

Kuroo puts the two spoons down and runs the back of his hand over his temple. “Right.”

It’s a strange moment, sitting here on the counter, watching all of this happening next to him. Kenma had imagined himself walking back in tonight, knowing Kuroo was staying late for whatever reason, and standing in the back room or the pantry facing him straight on, looking up into his face in dim lighting, having another strained conversation with him—though one that was alone like he wanted. But they’re at eye-level now, and Kuroo is acting like a chef does, and Kenma’s inventory is totally in check, even if it’s a little overloaded with new information and emotions. Whether they’re avoiding having an actual conversation or not, Kenma won’t decide.

Kuroo is standing here offering him a dish he just made.

“Tell me what it is,” Kenma says quietly.

Kuroo looks at him. He pauses, breathing, and Kenma wonders if his heart is beating a little harder too. “Right,” he says again. “It’s just ingredients we have for other dishes. Seared Kobe, nothing different. These are _cappellacci_ ,” he points to the pasta, “with a horseradish and sunchoke filling. A little olive oil, sage.”

“We don’t serve any pasta dishes,” Kenma says. He glances again at the section of countertop dusted in flour. “Did you make the dough tonight?”

Kuroo looks at him with his lips parted. He looks back at the dish and says, “Yeah. I just rolled it myself.”

Kenma hums.

Kuroo clears his throat and points at the sautéed mixture. “Thai shallots with star anise, black salt, red wine vinegar—” he motions to Bokuto’s station, “and a pinch of the honey thyme. And…” He nods to the quenelle. “The cream.”

“You did this all really quickly,” Kenma says.

Kuroo does something like a laugh. “Well.” He looks around and finds a fork and knife. “I am a chef.”

The way he says it, this gentle falling tone, makes Kenma look down. He doesn’t say anything else as Kuroo slices into the Kobe and begins gathering each element onto the fork. Kenma awaits Kuroo’s tasting it once the singular perfect bite is formed. For some reason, he really wants to know what Kuroo thinks of his own cooking.

But Kuroo holds the fork up toward him. He looks sideways and says, “Here.”

“Oh.” Kenma slowly takes his hands out from between his knees. He crosses his ankles unconsciously and takes the fork from Kuroo’s hand.

He doesn’t have enough words to describe the bite he takes. It _is_ incredible, a perfect combination of flavors taken from multiple other dishes on the menu, with the ingredients Kuroo just happened to have on hand. The bite of the horseradish mixed with the subtle nutty sweetness of the sunchoke, wrapped together in the smooth mouthfeel and perfect _al dente_ chew of Kuroo’s _cappellacci_ dough. The shallots are sharp, slightly sulfurous from the black salt and earthy with the thyme, but evened out with the pinch of honey that caramelized along with the shallots in the pan. The chill of the hand-whipped cream with the other warm elements feels hot and cold against the roof of his mouth, and the cabernet is naturally perfect with the red meat, while the hint of Greek yogurt pairs well with both the pasta and the honeyed shallots. Even to Kenma’s inexperienced palate, the Kobe feels perfectly seared.

It’s Tsukishima’s words that come to mind: _As a chef, he focuses on flavor concentration, the gravity of every plate that leaves the pass. Every bite for every customer needs to be precise and impactful._

Kuroo didn’t earn three stars for nothing.

“It’s delicious,” Kenma says. Kuroo looks at him, asking for more, but Kenma doesn’t have it. He shakes his head. “I don’t know what else to say. I don’t know why you don’t have any confidence in it.”

He waits with the fork balanced in his fingers as Kuroo stares at his dish. He figures there will be an obligatory thanks, maybe a request for him to taste it again and say something else.

Instead, Kuroo puts his hands on the edge of the counter on either side of the plate and leans onto them, shoulders hunching up. He says, “I’m trying to come up with something new.”

Kenma pauses, looking down at Kuroo’s hand close to his leg.

It’s quiet in the restaurant save for the hum of cold storage and the leftover clicking of the stove, and they’re alone—truly alone, with everyone else gone home for the night. It’s Kenma who holds the key to this restaurant.

_He lets his guard down with you_.

Ah. Finally.

In the ring, in his mind, Kuroo lowers his fists.

“You are?” he says.

“I haven’t changed the menu in over a year,” Kuroo admits. “Customers and us are getting bored. I know that. I’ve been trying to think of something for months now and nothing comes out right.”

All at once, Kenma understands something fundamental. “This is the menu that got you the third star.” The one that has existed since before whatever really happened ten months ago.

Kuroo nods. “But I…” he lets out a breath that sounds almost shaky, “can’t keep it forever. I know it has to change but I’m completely stuck. I could only work with the ingredients we already have here, but that’s no excuse. I’m a Michelin Star chef for god’s sake.” He shakes his head. “If I can’t change things—if I can’t pull this restaurant up from its knees, it’ll just have been,” he does one caustic laugh, “a flash in the pan. It’ll be fallen as quickly as it rose.”

Looking again at the dish he just tasted, Kenma understands another fundamental: _It’s not that you can’t. Something is keeping you from going through with it._

He could say something, but Kuroo needs to talk. He just says, “I see.”

“I used to sit down with everyone,” Kuroo says. His voice is pulled back in his throat. “Bounce ideas with the group, ask them what they wanted. It was always a collaborative effort.” He stands straight again and sighs heavily, covers his face with his hands.

The first instinct is to ask, _Then what’s changed?_ But Kenma doesn’t. He suddenly gets the idea that Kuroo is embarrassed—too much so to answer. Too ashamed by his actions lately to go back to his team and get on his knees.

“You should taste it,” Kenma tells him. When Kuroo takes his hands away to look at him, he looks just as pathetic as Kenma has always considered him. In the moment, he feels bad for thinking as much. He holds the fork out.

Kuroo takes it from him, gathers a second bite. Kenma watches his jaw as he chews, the emotions passing through his visible eye. He swallows, puts the fork down on the plate, and says, “Terushima would hate this cream. It’s too sweet and needs more acidity, but I would’ve made it curdle with any more wine. He would know how to formulate it, and Noya would know which wine would work best. Cabernet with red meat is an elementary pairing.”

“Kuroo.”

“Hajime would have a perfect sear—something I get after him for all the time. Bo’s cut would be finer,” he motions dismissively to the shallots, “and his pasta dough would have been buttery and the perfect density. Kageyama could make a better quenelle in his sleep. Kei’s plating would be meticulous and beautiful.”

_Kei_. Nobody but Kuroo has even spoken Tsukishima’s given name aside from Ennoshita’s full-name introduction. Kenma ought to address it, ask Kuroo now before something gets too far. But, foolishly, he doesn’t want to.

“Kuroo,” he says again.

“I’m losing my touch as a chef.” Kuroo pushes at the back of his hair. “I started this restaurant, and I’ve been this executive for so long, I…”

The urge to reassure him is severe. “You aren’t.”

“I told Hajime to move faster with Nekomata,” Kuroo says suddenly, louder and too fast. He whips his head sideways to look at Kenma. “I know how cooking meat works. It was my fault.”

The words both ping up in Kenma’s logical head and push into his chest. Kuroo admitting that is…unexpected. A step forward. Realizing it in the first place, and being able to say it out loud.

But at the same time…

“No.”

Kuroo’s features draw into the same confused worry he gets when Kenma says something he doesn’t understand.

“I was wrong on Wednesday night,” Kenma says, “and so are you, now. Ten seconds couldn’t have made that much of a difference. It was Iwaizumi’s fault in the end.”

Kuroo immediately goes into defensive mode for his chef. He frowns. “What—”

“And he knew that. That was why, that time, he went to personally apologize.” Kenma waits, making sure Kuroo is listening. “He’s human. He made a mistake. You need to allow that for him.”

Kuroo blinks. His gaze flicks around, thinking, but he lands on nothing. He just shakes his head small.

Kenma sighs. He wants to pull his legs up to cross them, but he doesn’t. He puts his hands to his sides and leans on them instead. “I’m the kind of person who can make the same mistake over and over. When—”

“What?”

Kenma turns to him. His eye is wide and dark, his pupil dilated almost fully despite the fluorescents above them.

“Sometimes I make the same mistake more than once,” Kenma says again. When Kuroo just stares at him, he looks forward and continues. “Writing papers, answering questions at job interviews. It’s like a level in a game. You have to get used to the mistakes and recognize them to get better. And the thing is that the game doesn’t care who you are; it treats each player the same as any other.” He tucks his hair behind his ear. “And when I’m messing up, or not trying hard enough, the game lets me go back. Or my friends do, if we’re playing together. Because they have confidence in me, they give me the chance to try again.” He looks back up at Kuroo. He’s still just staring, standing there. “Give Iwaizumi a chance to make up for it next time,” he says softly. “Let him go back in and prove himself. You don’t have to be so defensive.” He looks into the kitchen. “They keep giving you chances, don’t they?”

Whether Kuroo won’t or can’t say anything, Kenma isn’t sure. That’s okay—it’s his turn to talk now.

“I didn’t get it at first, but…” He sighs. “I think they would stay with you no matter what review they get, or what a customer says.”

Finally, Kuroo answers him. “That’s…not true.”

Kenma nods. He glances between everyone’s stations. “Mm. You know better than I do.”

Kuroo pushes his hair back on his left side. “I want them to be the finest they can. I’ve pushed them from the beginning.”

One more thing comes to Kenma’s mind, something Ennoshita explained to him briefly, just after Kenma saw Kuroo for the first time. It’s not the same, but very similar: … _the day Kuroo’s first critic’s review came in that didn’t have Sugawara’s name in it was his first great achievement as an executive chef._

Kenma turns to look into Kuroo’s face again. “Don’t you think they’re capable of being praised without your name?”

Kuroo’s mouth opens. Mauve and slightly chapped, the swoop of his cupid’s bow over lips that are not too thin, not too full.

For the first time today, Kenma smiles. “Ease up on Iwaizumi.”

Red scratches at Kuroo’s cheekbones. “He’s the _rotisseur_ ,” he says, looking away.

Kenma hums. “He probably knows that.” He looks at Iwaizumi’s station again, the cast iron pan Kuroo was using still there on the burner. “He seems like the kind of person to already put a lot of pressure on himself.” He chooses not to say, _He doesn’t need more._

His mind is going back to his conversation with Iwaizumi, the things Iwaizumi said and his loyalty to this restaurant and to Kuroo. The one piece of advice for Kenma at the end: _He’s more foolish than you might think from the façade he puts on._

“I know he does,” Kuroo whispers.

“He cares a lot about you,” Kenma says with finality.

Kuroo can only shake his head in return.

Kenma brings his hands forward again, tucking them in his lap. “I think the dish is great.”

Kuroo looks at the plate. “Is it enough?”

“Don’t compare yourself to your team. Aren’t they all specialized?”

“No. That’s just what they like to think.” Kuroo crosses his arms again, takes a few steps away from the counter. “They’ve all been to culinary school the same as I have. Except Kageyama, and he’s the only one of us who can _truly_ bake. They’re all better than I am on many grounds.”

Kenma follows him with his eyes. “I don’t know if that’s true.” Kuroo turns halfway to give him a look. “I don’t,” Kenma says. “But I do know that they all think you’ve done something for them. Made them better in some way. And I think that, if a mentor’s students don’t do as well as or better than him, then he wasn’t a very good mentor in the first place.”

Kuroo faces away again. He nods.

“You can go easier on them and yourself,” Kenma suggests. “Take some weight off.”

Kuroo sighs. He walks back and comes next to Kenma, leaning back against the counter to face the same way. He rubs his face, and his voice is muffled. “I know. I’ve forgotten how.” He drops his hands. “I’ve gotten too old.”

He’s close—maybe half a meter. A week ago, this would have spelled trouble for Kenma, with Kuroo’s tendencies.

But…who is he kidding. He’s in worse trouble now.

“What are you, twenty-seven?” he asks.

Kuroo sighs again. “Twenty-six.”

So it’s only four years between them, not five.

“I mean my insides,” Kuroo says. He unbuttons his jacket and lets it sit open.

“You have three Michelin Stars in that time,” Kenma offers.

Kuroo crosses his arms again. “Yeah. I don’t like to talk about that.”

“Okay. I won’t.” He looks forward. “What were you going to say on Wednesday? After we read the Shirofuku review, when you almost said my name.”

In his periphery, Kuroo looks down. “I was going to say that with you serving, Nekomata would give a good review regardless.”

_Why? Because of my value?_ “I’m not better than Hinata or—”

“I wouldn’t have meant it that way.”

“What would you have meant?”

Kuroo looks at him. Looks away. “I’m not sure.”

It’s quiet for a while.

Kenma takes a breath. “I get it. When you feel like chances are going by, or like things didn’t turn out the way you thought they would. But the way they ended up is fine.”

Kuroo shifts on his feet. He turns his face toward Kenma, and his voice is quiet. “Why are you still here?”

“It’s not that late. I’m getting used to it.”

“I mean why didn’t you run away? Why haven’t you gone and saved yourself?”

Kenma finally turns to look at him again.

Kuroo’s crossed arms loosen. They watch each other, and in the silence, the desperation is taut in the air between them. Kuroo is breathing steadily.

Kenma isn’t sure, but maybe, almost imperceptibly, he nods.

The moment is so sensitive that he can feel the compression of the air in front of his lips again before Kuroo finally surpasses it. His lips are warm, the dry kind of soft, and they press firmly against Kenma’s. He holds it there for a few seconds, then leans back just enough to speak, his breath tickling against Kenma’s mouth.

“Is this the reason wh…”

He stops as if he can’t handle the question or the answer, and Kenma realizes that he doesn’t know the answer, and in the end, none of it matters.

One of them pushes back in first.

It isn’t dry anymore as they open the kiss. Kuroo steps away from the counter, shifting to stand in front of Kenma instead. Kenma unhooks his ankles and parts his legs out to the sides, out of Kuroo’s way for him to step close, hands landing on the counter at either side of Kenma’s hips. Kenma pushes his palms against the solid warmth of Kuroo’s chest, up to his shoulders, slips them under his jacket until it’s in the way and he can’t go any further. Without breaking them apart, Kuroo pulls the jacket off behind him and it drops heavily to the floor. His hands come back forward. One finds Kenma’s thigh as Kenma wraps his arms over Kuroo’s shoulders.

Kuroo has a smell about him: a gentle must, faint, neither good nor bad, and very human. Kenma takes a deep inhale of it, and as he sighs it out, tilting his chin up, Kuroo leaves a few kisses at the side of his mouth. He registers Kuroo giving his thigh a squeeze, a dig in of his fingertips, before both hands come up to his face and push back into his hair, threading through it. He feels the pads of Kuroo’s fingers against his scalp, Kuroo’s hips between his legs, the brush of Kuroo’s bangs against his cheekbone as he tilts his head and opens his mouth more for Kuroo to press forward and pull him in. He can taste hints of cabernet sauvignon on his tongue, the warm tang of red wine and he figures that Kuroo had a swig of it before he used it to cook, but he isn’t drunk, not even buzzed.

And he pulls back first, suddenly, fingers slipping from Kenma’s hair. His cheeks are red with heat, and he brings his hand up to his mouth to cover it.

Kenma takes his arms away from his shoulders. Kuroo steps back, and Kenma puts his knees together. He looks at the jacket sitting crumpled on the floor.

Somewhere in Yokohama, Yaku is buying the first ticket to Tokyo to come knock him upside the head.

“Sorry,” Kuroo says. He takes another step back, lowering his hand from his mouth. He nudges the jacket with his heel. “Bad habit.”

“So you kiss all of your servers like that?” Kenma mutters, wiping his lower lip with the back of his thumb. They’re tingling, full. He swallows down the taste of Kuroo.

Kuroo turns his face away, shoulders tense in his T-shirt. He’s the lean kind of muscular the upper half of it doesn’t hide. He mutters back, “I’ve never kissed any of my servers.”

Back in the pantry, then. Saturday. That wasn’t just habit either.

In the long silence, Kuroo doesn’t look at him. There are so many things Kenma could say that he comes up with nothing at all.

“Please forget the first few days,” Kuroo says, so quiet Kenma can barely hear him. “What I did to you.”

“It doesn't work that way.” A pause and he looks down. “But I stayed here, after all.”

Kuroo swallows audibly. He looks around at the mess of the kitchen. “It’s not good enough, is it.”

“I don’t know. I guess I’m not the right person to ask.”

Kuroo comes back to the counter, calmly picks up the plate he made, and throws the entire thing into the trash. Kenma hears it shatter at the bottom.

Kuroo stands there, then puts one hand on his hip and the other on his forehead. “Damn it. Akaashi’s gonna kill me about the plates.”

Kenma nearly laughs, but it comes out like a sigh.

Kuroo takes a breath. “When I said you’re not faceless, I meant that you’re not just different, but…to me. I do care.” He looks cautiously into Kenma’s eyes.

But Kenma has understood the entire time. He nods.

Kuroo nods back. “Would it be too much to ask for your help cleaning up,” he mumbles.

_You asked instead of telling me. And you don’t want to leave it like this for everyone else tomorrow. See?_ “Of course, Chef,” Kenma says.

That same desperate stare. But a little bit better now. “My name is Tetsurou, you know.”

“Okay.” Kenma tucks his hair behind his ears and slides down from the countertop. “Tetsurou.”

* * *

**HC: Throughout high school, Akaashi always felt that he would be going into psychology in university. He’d be a therapist or a counselor because he has intuition, tact, and empathy. When he confessed to Bokuto in second year and they became a couple, and they started talking more about the future, Bokuto was fully supportive of this plan: “You’re so smart and your patients will love you. I would know—I’m the one who did it first.” (Kuroo: “He was the one who confessed to _you_ , Bo.”) But in third year when Bokuto and Kuroo decided they’d try to make it in the culinary world and Bokuto started applying for programs, Akaashi changed his mind. The time Bokuto and Kuroo used to gain knowledge and experience in their programs and restaurants, Akaashi spent completing an undergraduate degree in hotel and restaurant management and a Doctorate in hospitality management with a concentration in public relations and strategic communication. Even with how tired he gets, how little he sleeps, and how noticeable the wrinkles are starting to be at the corners of his eyes from stress, he has never once regretted building this dream with the two people he holds closest to his heart.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once more! I managed to snag a spot from THE yanksmiles for a little [Kenma piece](https://twitter.com/yankasmiles/status/1329960002400833538) some of you may have seen. It's gorgeous, and if you somehow don't know Yanka already, please check her out!!


	17. 70 61 69 6e 74 20 74 68 65 20 72 6f 6f 6d 20 61 6e 79 20 63 6f 6c 6f 72 20 79 6f 75 20 77 61 6e 74 2c 20 69 74 27 73 20 73 74 69 6c 6c 20 6f 6e 20 66 69 72 65 2e

“You ready to talk about it yet?”

Kenma looks up from the melon he’s cutting into slices for the two of them. “What?”

Tendou eyes him from the stove. “Whatever’s been on your mind since you came home so late Friday night.”

By the time he and Kuroo finished cleaning the kitchen, it was coming up on four a.m. Kenma agreed to being driven home, and in the end, Kuroo was a lot more uncomfortable about it than he was. The air between them in his car was thick and staticky, clinging to the little hairs on the nape of Kenma’s neck—the same spot where Kuroo kept compulsively rubbing his own, keeping his eyes trained on the road or glancing out his window. It wasn’t that hard to tell that Kuroo wanted to kiss him at lights, kiss him goodbye. But something was holding him back. He didn’t get out of the car when he dropped Kenma off.

Yesterday’s service wasn’t much different—not between them, and not for the kitchen. The tension from the night before remained, but though there were moments of passing each other near the pass or in the back, Kuroo kept his hands to himself and his eyes generally elsewhere. Him being embarrassed or ashamed isn’t what Kenma is looking for, but he was at least happy that Kuroo pretended to be focused on his work. His aimless wandering during service was a little bit better, like he cared again a little bit more, but he kept glancing at Tsukishima and looking away, and the way Akaashi watched him from the house the entire time revealed everything Kuroo wanted to hide.

But once, when Iwaizumi came to the pass with his brief _Kobe, Chef_ , Kuroo looked at it and said, _Good_. During full house, Kageyama held a dariole of his panna cotta over his serving plate and gave it his usual wiggle to let it slide out, and Kuroo from across the kitchen said, _Gently, Kageyama. Delicate_. Kageyama gave his _Yes, Chef_ in return, and Kuroo said, _Thank you_. Both Kageyama and Yuuji looked over their shoulders at him with bewildered expressions on their faces. Bokuto, mood returned in full, laughed aloud.

Baby steps. They’re getting somewhere. At the very least, they’ve begun.

After service, Kenma got Bokuto and Akaashi’s phone numbers, but he has still yet to get Kuroo’s.

“Oh,” he says to Tendou.

Tendou turns back to his pan, poking at a second omelette with his chopsticks. “Did something happen with the guy?”

Kenma cuts another slice of melon and it tips over with a _splat_ onto the cutting board. “Mm.”

There’s no immediate response from his roommate so he looks up again. Tendou is standing there with his free hand on his hip, looking at the juice spilled from the cutting board onto the counter. It’ll get sticky if it dries. “What,” he says, “did he actually kiss you this time?”

Kenma stands there looking at the juice, too. The counter in Tiger’s Eye is just a little taller, the exact height to bring him and Kuroo eye to eye when he was sitting on it. Eye to eye, and…

He says, “Mm.”

Tendou takes a deep breath and turns back to the omelette as he sighs it out. “Did you kiss him back?” He snorts when Kenma doesn’t answer. “I guess he behaved that night, then.”

“No holds barred, Tendou,” Kenma says. They might as well just get on with it.

He can practically hear Tendou gearing up, the sound of his pupils shrinking. Tendou slides the omelette onto what will be Kenma’s plate, puts the pan back down, and flicks the burner off. He faces Kenma fully, kicking back against the counter. “All right, Kozume. Has he changed?”

Kenma sighs and puts down his knife. He turns, letting his arms come to rest at his sides. “I don’t know yet.”

“Huh. That’s good.” Tendou smiles. “So no.”

“It won’t happen overnight,” Kenma mutters.

“It’s been two weeks since you got there.” Tendou looks steadily at him with that kind of face he and Yaku both get when they’re about to say something serious. “What bothers me so much is that everybody else in that place seems complacent with his behavior.”

It gives Kenma a light slap to the face. Aside from Ennoshita and Akaashi’s expectations of him and the game they all played when he first arrived at the restaurant, he’s seen everything as Kuroo’s fault. It is, mostly, but Tendou has never been one to let slip by the things that are harder to see, or the things Kenma ignores.

“They all tell you he’s just like that,” Tendou says. “That whatever he was before just changed. But that’s a pretty shitty excuse.”

Kenma flashes to Bokuto, telling him on the first night to just keep his head down and bite his tongue. Akaashi’s ever-present mantra at that time: _Be prepared to follow all orders given to you and to defer to the chef in any instance regardless of the circumstance._

Tendou isn’t wrong. But he also doesn’t know Kuroo like they do.

But…it was Kenma _not_ keeping his head down, not keeping his mouth shut like everybody else, that has made any difference in the first place. Speaking up—scolding him—started something.

Tendou doesn’t know Kuroo, but he does know Kenma very well.

“You’re right,” Kenma says.

Tendou lifts a brow. “Didn’t expect that.” Kenma doesn’t bother a reply, so Tendou stretches his neck to the side. “Look. The point is, leaving it all on you is a dick move. If _they_ don’t start working on this too, there’s something really messed up about that place.”

_Oh, there definitely is,_ Kenma thinks. _Just give me time to find out._ “They have started,” he says. “Akaashi took me in his office with Kuroo to talk to him.”

“And did it help?” Tendou asks.

Did it?

Friday post-service was different—something new added into their relationship, whatever it is. But everything else, including the outcome of the talk in Akaashi’s office, has been what it always is: Kuroo crossing his arms and shutting his mouth and refusing to adjust his behavior. If it really is because something is keeping him from doing so like Kenma believes, then he needs to hurry up and figure it out. For all of their sake.

It feels like the same level over and over again, learning nothing from his mistakes and making zero progress. Has the game Kenma began at Tiger’s Eye gone anywhere at all? Was yesterday the end of one path; the step up to a new level? Did Kuroo really stop fighting?

“I want his value,” Kenma says.

Tendou nods to him. “You ought to expect it. But you can never ask for it.”

That much he understands. Asking for Kuroo to value him invalidates the value itself, regardless of his or Kuroo’s intentions. Kuroo has to choose to value him of his own volition, or else any meaning behind it is void.

“People are just people,” Tendou says. He moves toward their fridge.

Kenma follows him with his eyes.

“That’s always been your thing. You treat everyone as you’d treat anyone.” Tendou pulls the door open and leans down to reach inside. “You’re the most equal person I know.” He comes out with a bottle of ketchup and stands to look at Kenma again. “But we’re still human. We’re not, like, a bunch of code. Except me, obviously.” He turns back to their plates.

Kenma laughs a little, but looks down.

“And once you decide to do something…” Tendou draws a squiggle of ketchup on Kenma’s omelette like always. “You pour your soul into it.” He clicks the bottle closed. “But you’re trying too hard to crack him.”

Kenma puts his fingers together in front of him, messing with his nails.

“Because as much as you want it to be, it’s not up to you to decide when he lets it out. Whatever the hell it is.” He puts the ketchup away then gives Kenma another accusing but unsurprised raised eyebrow. “But it’s not like you’re not gonna ask him to anyway.”

For anything to work, the two of them must reach an equilibrium. Gameplay is optimized by cooperating and following the rules. In a finite game like this, one player cheating, or refusing to work with the other, results in a worse outcome for both.

If Kuroo declines cooperation, their entire circumstance becomes a zero-sum game and all bets will be off. He needs to start playing fair and square.

“I think he’ll tell me,” Kenma murmurs. “Soon.”

“Oh yeah?” Tendou leans his elbows back on the counter casually. “And what are you gonna have to do to get it?”

Kenma thinks of the look on Kuroo’s face when he suddenly pulled back from their kiss, the flush on his cheeks and the way he covered his mouth. Kenma might have been unsure about things given that reaction alone—whether or not Kuroo meant to do it, means to do it again, or wants more. But the drive home and the tension last night during service reveal him just as well.

If the price Kenma has to pay is what he knows Kuroo wants, then…

His therapist in high school used to tell him to say things out loud—give things a name and put his feelings into words. He draws in a breath and says, “I think I want to.”

Both of Tendou’s brows go high up in surprise, his eyes widening, and then he breaks into laughter. “Damn. Was the kiss that good?” He chuckles and turns for their plates, breakfast for Kenma and lunch for him. “I mean, hey. Waka got me with it, too, and he was a virgin at the time. Lucky boy.”

“There’s something else,” Kenma says.

Tendou stops with his hands on the edges of the plates. He brings them back down and turns around again.

Kenma looks sideways. “You remember Tsukishima.”

“Sous, glasses,” Tendou confirms.

“I think they’re in…something.”

Tendou closes his eyes, runs his hand over his hair again. “It’s Sunday. This is supposed to be my day off.”

“I don’t know how serious it is,” Kenma admits.

“Did you ask?” He drops the hand out to the side.

Kenma doesn’t answer.

Tendou sighs. “This is getting too complicated. The omelettes are getting cold.” He turns again and picks up their plates.

“I’ll figure everything—”

“I’m not gonna see you get hurt, right?” He faces Kenma, plates in his hand, brows down in the middle. “What did Yaku say to all of this?”

“I…” He hasn’t said anything to Yaku or Lev. He hasn’t spoken a word about anyone at the restaurant to them since he visited on Thursday. Not about Kuroo, or Yuuji, or anything. If he told them how his date with Yuuji went, and they found out that he turned Yuuji down for Kuroo after all of it, they would hang him out to dry. “Haven’t told him,” he finishes.

Tendou just nods like he expected it anyway. “You’d probably give him an aneurysm. Grab the melon.”

“What do you think I should do?”

Tendou turns a quick, manic grin on him, eyes gleaming. “Will you listen?”

Kenma glances away. Tendou really does know him well.

“All I’m saying is…” Tendou moves with their food out toward the kotatsu where they always eat together. “That better have been the best kiss in the world.”

Kenma looks at their counter again. He starts gathering the melon onto a plate.

* * *

**HC: Tendou and Ushiwaka met at an organic market in Shizuoka, where Tendou attended undergraduate university. Ushiwaka had just started taking on roles handed down from his father in the family business at the farm. That day, Ushiwaka wasn’t supposed to be the one bringing their goods to the market, but their usual transporter, Yamagata, had a last-minute obligation, so Ushiwaka volunteered. He ended up staying in Shizuoka for three hours longer than he was meant to, and his stepmother questioned him extensively out of worry when he returned home.**

**Yes, he was a virgin then. After the next market two weeks later, he wasn’t.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Title: hexadecimal](https://www.asciitohex.com/)


	18. i got got a long time ago.

Kuroo parks in the garage and makes his way inside the building. On the ninth floor, he steps out from the elevator into the hall, putting his hands in his pockets.

At post-service on a Monday, 3:30 a.m., the apartments are silent. His work sneakers pad against the laminate, and spaced lamps glow a soft yellow almost the same color as the ones in the restaurant he just got out of. Between them hang miscellaneous art in frames. An abstract linework looks like two people embraced in a kiss.

Every time he has passed Kenma during service since Friday night, he’s had a desperate urge to pull him in. The urge to push it away and forget everything makes a worthy opponent.

At the door he’s come to so many times in the past three years since returning from Kyoto, he knocks.

Footsteps approach, and the door opens in front of him. “Drive slow?”

“This place still feels like a hotel,” Kuroo mutters. He looks up at Bokuto standing there. “You finally bought a car, I see. Why are you the one opening the door to Akaashi’s place for me?”

Bokuto lifts an eyebrow. “I guess you weren’t paying attention when he told you he had a bit of paperwork to do before locking up.”

Kuroo curls his hands into fists in his pockets. “Oh.”

Bokuto stands to the side and waves Kuroo into Akaashi’s apartment. “Get in here. You’ve got some explaining to do.”

Grey sweats and a fitted white T-shirt show off every part of Bokuto that Akaashi loves. As Bokuto moves around the room, he looks out of place. Akaashi’s apartment exhibits his preference for elegance; he’s an Egyptian silk pajamas kind of guy, and he makes the money to afford it. Everything past the front door is warm, earth-toned, gentle, and easy on the eyes.

Bokuto tosses Kuroo a bottle of water from the fridge. He asked for something stronger, but Bokuto didn’t even bother answering. Akaashi doesn’t drink. “Thanks,” he says. He looks up from where he’s sitting on Akaashi’s maroon suede sofa at Bokuto, picking things up from surfaces and moving them to other places. “What are you doing?”

“Tidying,” Bokuto says. “He gets sensory overload in that place.”

“Is it your stuff? Have you moved in finally?”

“No.” Bokuto picks up the mug Kuroo recognizes as Akaashi’s favorite—ceramic, brown, that Bokuto gave him back in high school when he didn’t have the money yet for flashier gifts. He takes it from the coffee table to the kitchen sink. “But I know where he likes his things to be.” Bokuto looks at Kuroo over the bar counter. “And we would’ve told you if I had. We’re still talking about it.” He turns to the fridge again and comes out with two onigiri wrapped in parchment and a bowl of rape blossoms and mustard dressing covered with plastic wrap.

It’s a more decent meal than Kuroo would have had for himself. Despite the fact that they’re Michelin chefs, none of them eat very well, living off of instant or frozen foods and leftover takeout. Kuroo would rarely have a legitimate meal if it weren’t for the things Kei cooks him when he comes over.

The name swells up in his chest, and Kei’s face flashes in his mind from all angles that Kuroo has seen him. He closes his eyes and shakes his head. “Right.”

Bokuto brings the food out and places it on the coffee table with a pair of chopsticks. “You look a wreck, man.” He sits down on the floor, leaning back against the front of a matching suede chair.

Kuroo pushes his hand through the back of his hair. “Yeah. Well.” He cracks open the bottle of water.

Bokuto tilts his chin at it. “Not on the suede.”

He wants to say, _It’s water_ , but if he spilled and Akaashi found out, he wouldn’t have the armor of being in Tiger’s Eye to protect him anymore. “Right.” He slides down onto the floor across from Bokuto. His work pants are uncomfortable and he envies the sweats Bokuto keeps here for nights like these. He’s sick of the uniform he chose—sick of that stiff, heavy jacket that felt so good to let drop off his shoulders onto the kitchen floor back on Friday night, when Kenma’s hands smoothed up his chest and around his neck, and his hair was like Egyptian silk between Kuroo’s fingers, and he somehow tasted faintly of chamomile, and…

Anyway, the jacket makes him look like a pompous ass.

If he said that out loud, Bokuto would just end up being honest with him.

He sighs heavily and downs a third of the water.

“It gets tiring, doesn’t it,” Bokuto says.

“What?” He lowers the bottle and twists the cap on.

Bokuto shrugs, pulls a knee up, rests a muscled arm on it. “Acting like you’ve been.”

Kuroo frowns. “Are we starting out like this, Bo?”

Bokuto laughs at him. “See? Like that.”

Kuroo thwacks the water bottle onto the coffee table between them, puts his hands on his face and rubs. He says, muffled, “We kissed.”

When he takes his hands away, Bokuto is looking at him with wide golden eyes. “Like, you kissed him?”

Kuroo swallows. “I think we kissed each other.”

Bokuto runs a hand back over his hair. “Jeez. I mean, I knew _you_ wanted him since he stepped in, but I didn’t—” He cuts off, tilting his head. “No, maybe I kind of did expect him to, also.” He snorts. “Keiji definitely did. He’s pretty clairvoyant.” He levels his gaze on Kuroo. “Are you coming to terms with the past, then?”

Kuroo feels his neck heat up. He looks sideways at the antique Flemish tapestry Akaashi has on his wall. “Well—”

Bokuto snaps his fingers like he figured something out. “ _That’s_ why you’ve been ripping us to shreds. You’ve got that cognitive dissonance thing.”

Bokuto may be a bit of an airhead sometimes, but along with being a remarkable chef, he’s also never been out of touch with his or others’ emotions. It’s a positive trait he’s gained even more of by being with Akaashi, and something Kuroo envies greatly.

He looks down at his crossed legs. “I’m sorry about…snapping at you.”

Bokuto blinks once, twice. And then he laughs again, loudly, tipping his head back far enough that it rests on the seat of the chair behind him. “Holy shit. Okay.” He calms down and grins at Kuroo. “I really appreciate that apology, dude. This is a good development for you.”

Now it’s _too_ warm in here. Even Kuroo’s T-shirt is starting to feel stuffy with how hot his body is getting. He sighs again, feels a twitch at one of his eyebrows, and tries to relax back against the front of the sofa. “How do you two handle it?”

Bokuto tilts his head again. “Do you mean love or logistics?”

Kuroo shrugs. “Both, I guess,” he mutters.

“Well.” Bokuto draws in a breath. “Time is a huge thing. You know that.”

More than anything. If he had been around more often, hadn’t been so neglectful of their relationship, maybe Daichi wouldn’t have gone away. “Yeah. I do.”

“So, you know, hypothetically.” Bokuto leans forward onto his knee. “Two people in the industry—like me and Keiji—we have the same hours.”

Kuroo nods once. “Right.”

“But at the same time, we don’t _technically_ work together day to day. Right?” He puts a hand out. “I’m in the kitchen, he’s in the house. Any problems would be separate. Other than you.”

Kuroo sneers. “Funny.”

Bokuto just chuckles at him. “And it’s not like we’re together twenty-four-seven either. It puts us on the same schedule, but not in each other’s faces all the time.”

Kuroo nods again, looking at the floor. “Hm. The kids, too.”

“Exactly.” Bokuto leans back against the chair again.

“But…” Kuroo frowns again, frustrated. “It’s not that easy.”

In high school, relationships were shallow and required no effort with the obligation to interact in classes. When he met Daichi, they got together right off the bat. Kei serves his every whim. But Kenma…

“It’s work, isn’t it,” Bokuto says. “As much as you want him to, he’s not just falling into your hands. He’s not a capitulator, and he’s not going to enable you. At least not like you’re used to.”

Kuroo just exhales.

“You haven’t exactly made it easy for him, either,” Bokuto says.

Kuroo looks away again. “It’s just different. You and Keiji have been together since high school. Kageyama won Hinata over with, like, latte art. You know he worked in a café starting at fourteen?”

“I really love this little dance we’re doing around the subject, but you need to get it together.”

Kuroo balks.

“And you underestimate the work those two put in for each other. They’re very different.” Bokuto smiles at him. “Look. You’ve been on Kenma since night one, bro. I don’t mean your usual—I mean for real. Like, emotionally. I was standing there when you told him good work, which you haven’t even done for any of us since we landed Daichi’s star. I saw how you couldn’t look at him. Jesus, you still barely can; you’re like a shameful little first year. And you let him into the kitchen on his _second day_.” He shrugs. “Him chewing you out just sealed the deal.”

“Seriously, Bo?”

Bokuto looks him straight in the eye with the most serious face Kuroo has ever seen on his best friend. “Dead. Do you want to be in a relationship with him or not?”

Kuroo stares at him with his lips parted, speechless.

Behind him, the door keys open. Akaashi steps in to start pulling off his shoes. “I’m home.”

Bokuto smiles up at him. “Hey.”

“Keep it low key, you two,” Kuroo mutters. “At least while I’m here.” He grabs the water bottle again for something to do with his hands.

“Low key is my middle name,” Bokuto says, seriousness gone in a flash. He stares at Akaashi walking in on socked feet. When Akaashi comes over, he leans forward from the chair to let Akaashi sit with his legs on either side of him.

Akaashi puts his hands on Bokuto’s shoulders, squeezes, and leans down to kiss his temple. “Hey. Thank you for the food.”

Bokuto practically purrs in his hands, leaning his head into it. “No problem.”

Kuroo clicks his tongue. “What did I just say?”

Akaashi looks up, sharp eyes landing on him over the table. “You’re in my place now, Tetsurou.”

Kuroo shuts his mouth.

Akaashi sighs, squeezing Bokuto’s shoulders again. “You look a little shaken up.”

Kuroo grumbles and looks at the table. “Well, last time we really talked, you were pissed with me.”

“I’m always a little pissed with you,” Akaashi says. Bokuto doesn’t hide a smile very well. “About as much as you are with yourself,” Akaashi adds gently.

Kuroo looks down. He takes another gulp of water.

“I suppose you two are talking about Kenma?” Akaashi brings his hands to Bokuto’s hair, petting it back in slow strokes.

Kuroo lifts and drops a hand. “Come on.”

“Known you for too long, man,” Bokuto says. Akaashi starts using his nails and Bokuto’s eyes flutter closed. He tips his head back between Akaashi’s knees.

“Yeah, fine,” Kuroo grunts.

Akaashi hums, paying close attention to the sides of Bokuto’s head, above his ears. Bokuto looks blissed out. “What are you going to do about it?”

Kei’s voice appears in his head: _What are you going to do about Kenma?_

A lot has happened since Kei asked him that, since the last time he took Kei home with him. Pathetically, his answer hasn’t changed.

He shakes his head and says, just as he did before, “I don’t know.”

“You have two options,” Akaashi says.

“Oh man.” Bokuto smiles, loopy. One of his arms is wrapped around Akaashi’s leg, fingers pushing up at the hem of his pants to get to any skin. “He’s already got the options ready.”

Kuroo squints at him. “Bo, do you know what low key means?”

“If you had Keiji to scratch your head, you would understand.”

“You can fire him,” Akaashi says.

Kuroo’s eyes flick up to his.

“Just remove the issue entirely,” he offers. “Run from him by sending him out, and then nothing will have to change and you can be complacent where you’ve been for the last ten months.”

Kuroo opens his mouth, but nothing comes out right away. Eventually, quietly: “You know I can’t send him away.”

Akaashi just smiles down at Bokuto’s face tilted up towards him. “Or, you can fess up to the fact that he simply isn’t going to take anything from you or anybody else here, and that he isn’t going to be easy. And that, in the end, that’s the part of him you’re so attracted to anyway.”

This time, nothing comes out of Kuroo’s mouth at all.

“And that he’s a kickass server,” Bokuto says, “and we can’t afford to lose him.”

“And that for as long as you keep acting like an ass, he’ll be there to try to stop you.” Akaashi’s smile is gentle, fond and affectionate, as he rubs his fingertips up and down the back of Bokuto’s head. “Who knows? Maybe he’ll inspire the rest of us.”

Bokuto grins again. “We can throw a _coup d’état_.”

“I think Kageyama has been planning one secretly,” Akaashi says, laughing softly, leaning closer.

“I’m leaving.” Kuroo gets to his feet.

“It’s been a long time since Daichi left you.”

Akaashi’s hands stop, and Bokuto opens his eyes.

Kuroo looks at them again, and Akaashi has looked up to meet his gaze, keen and calm. “You did what you promised to him,” he says. “It’s time to move on.”

What Akaashi said to him on Friday plays again: _As your friend, I’m telling you that it’s getting to be too long now._

Ten months since they received their third star. The star that Kuroo got because Daichi told him that he wanted him to. The last thing he had to look forward to, and the only goal he had left. Working toward that star meant binding Daichi to his life—even if only in his mind—for just a little bit longer. Receiving it meant attaining everything he had left to attain, and once it came, he had no obligations left to fulfill. Against his will, it set Daichi free from him. For the ten months since, nothing has remained.

His mind flashes again to Friday night. In one moment, Kenma said, _Ease up on Iwaizumi_ —but it didn’t matter what words he spoke then. He could have said anything and Kuroo might not have heard more than half of it because just before then, Kenma had smiled. His lips curved up at the corners, forming small crescent lines at the side of his mouth, and Kuroo caught a quick glimpse of his teeth, and he did this little breathy _hah_ , like the softest, most exhausted laugh Kuroo has ever heard. His hair swayed.

Nothing remained, until now. The two of them are the kinds of people who can make the same mistakes, over and over. It’s time for Kuroo to stop making his. Or, at the very least, start trying.

He really does have some explaining to do.

“I said I’m leaving,” he murmurs. He feels like a child, but he can’t think of what else to say. His friends have always been vastly more emotionally attuned than him. The water bottle is clutched tightly in his fist, crackling against his palm.

“Good,” Akaashi retorts. “I’ll eat and get Kou to bed.” Bokuto turns and kisses one of his hands.

As Kuroo watches them, a flood of envy and loneliness makes his chest ache. He says, “Aren’t you supposed to be over it after eleven years?”

Akaashi raises his brows at him. “Do you think you will be?”

He blinks.

Bokuto stands, opens one of the onigiri and hands it to Akaashi, then starts toward Kuroo. “Go home and eat something.” He reaches the door and puts a hand on the knob.

Kuroo rubs his forehead. “This job doesn’t let me have any other friends than you two. Spare me, all right?”

Bokuto chuckles. “Don’t blame the job, man.”

“And about that,” Akaashi calls over before taking a bite.

Bokuto hooks a thumb at him and nods to Kuroo. “Yeah. You need to figure it out with Tsukishima.”

Kuroo flushes red. He can feel it in his neck again. “Huh?”

“I’m gonna be honest with you, bro.” He claps his hand on Kuroo’s shoulder. “You need to cut that part off. Have some respect for the two of them if you can’t have it for yourself.”

Kuroo’s lips part again. Behind Bokuto, Akaashi stands from the chair. He raises his onigiri in agreement, then moves toward the kitchen.

Kuroo lowers his voice to a hush. “What about the not logistics part? How does eleven years work?”

Bokuto glances over his shoulder toward the kitchen where Akaashi is pulling out two glasses for cold tea. He turns back with true contentment in his eyes. “We accept one another and ourselves completely. No matter what, past or future, we’re good to each other.”

Kuroo frowns at him, confused. “That’s it?”

“Uh-huh.” Bokuto smiles and pulls open the door. “Now get out of my restaurant.”

* * *

**HC: As he’s a year older, Bokuto went into culinary school a year prior to Kuroo. Kuroo was accepted into the same program after graduating high school, and he did everything he could to catch up to Bokuto in his work, but the pacing of the program wouldn’t allow it. Despite Kuroo now being the executive chef, and even though it was entirely inevitable because of their age, Bokuto to this day won’t let Kuroo live it down that he graduated second.**

**Bokuto and Akaashi have been talking about moving in together for a while now. Bokuto knows Akaashi can need his alone time, and he respects it fully. The last thing he likes to see is Akaashi very stressed: he becomes exhausted and too frail, nearly passes out sometimes (Bokuto caught him mid-fall once, walking down the hall to his bedroom), and if it gets to the point that Akaashi cries, Bokuto can’t keep his own emotions in either. But, if it happens, the moment Akaashi finally invites him to ditch his apartment and come live here, he will say yes in an instant.**

**On Thursdays, he makes onigiri in batches of ten and nanohana to freeze for Akaashi, every week.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I wrote a little 7k [BokuAka one shot](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27926059) that directly follows this chapter--pretty fluffly, quite intimate, rated M. It's called "Take Your Time". Check it out if you'd like!


	19. alla fine, i frutti proibiti sono i più dolci.

He makes the decision the next morning.

The night passed slowly with him falling in and out of shallow sleep. For long periods of time, he laid there staring at the windowsill, at the dust motes floating around in the moonlight at the corners where he still has yet to clean.

Kei hasn’t been here since the day he cut himself.

Now, shirtless, halfway under the covers, Kuroo sits on his bed in the light of eleven a.m. and looks down at his phone in his hands. Finally, he taps the name.

The first thing Kei says is, “What is it, Tetsurou?”

Kuroo swallows. He looks out the window at his fence, the gentle grassy slope beyond it, twenty meters from the next house over. “Hey, Kei. How are you?”

It takes a long time for Kei to say, “What?”

In the next pause, it hits Kuroo that Kei has known this entire time. From the moment Kenma became a part of Tiger’s Eye, he knew everything. Kei isn’t foolish. The only one who is is Kuroo.

Or maybe Kei is a fool. For still coming back here every time.

“Why are you calling me, Tetsurou.”

Kuroo’s gaze falls to the sheets. “We need to talk about something.”

Kei’s voice is low. “You won’t even say his name? That’s sad.”

Kuroo can’t answer.

There’s a familiar, gentle _click_ on the other end of the line. The sound of Kei putting on his glasses. “Where are you.”

“What?” It comes out rough.

“Right now. Where are you?” Kei demands. “Did you even bother to get out of bed?”

Kuroo clutches the sheets in a shaky hand. “I…”

“You’ll tell me this to my face. Have some respect for me.”

Bokuto’s words from last night flash into his mind.

He tries to get out, _Okay_ , but Kei hangs up before he gets the chance.

…

Kei ends the call before Kuroo can muster some pathetic response. He grips his phone in his fist and moves toward his front door.

It _would_ be him. It would be him getting used and tossed aside. It would be him having to drive to Kuroo’s house right now. That’s how it always has been since the third star came in. He does everything for Kuroo, _would_ do anything for him, and Kuroo just sits back and watches.

Whether the heat pooling in his chest right now is fury, embarrassment, or shame doesn’t matter. He figures it has always been a little bit of them all.

He knows Kuroo’s door isn’t locked, but that doesn’t matter either. Kuroo is outside sitting on the steps when he gets there, knees drawn up and spread, elbows resting on them. When he looks up as Kei parks, his face is dreary and miserable. The face of an unhappy man.

Cruelly, Kei thinks, _Nothing new here._

He gets out of his car and shuts his door behind him. “I’m back to not being allowed in the house?”

Kuroo stands. “That’s not why I’m…”

A part of Kei that he refused to listen to knew this would happen eventually. He shakes his head. “I imagine this won’t take that long, anyway.”

Kuroo stares as he approaches him. It’s quiet where the house is—a place that Daichi chose for its serenity and removal from the city. Without him here, all it’s been for Kuroo is lonely.

Except for all of the times Kei was here with him once he finally could be. How many was it? Over a hundred nights, post-service confessionals, pitiful therapy sessions paid for in empty bottles and a startling lack of tears.

And more Thursdays than he could keep track of. Sunlit late mornings, hours in bed to themselves, warm hands and skin and lips on his body and the smell of Kuroo putting his mind in a heady daze that no taste of wine from Kuroo’s tongue could ever match.

The place on Kuroo’s nightstand where he always put his glasses.

In two and a half hours, he’ll have to go back into Tiger’s Eye for Tuesday night service as if none of what is about to happen—or ever happened—ever did.

“Kei,” Kuroo says.

At high noon, the sun bathes him in light save for the deep shadow under his bangs and the shallower one under his eye. He has on the same pair of joggers, another wrinkled T-shirt, and no shoes. He takes a step down onto the walkway towards Kei.

Kei meets him there on the concrete and they stand looking at each other.

“Tetsurou,” he says back, and it stings his tongue.

Kuroo swallows. “I guess you… Well.” He shakes his head. “I don’t know what to say.”

“All this time,” Kei breathes. His words feel searing hot in his throat.

Kuroo looks down and away.

“Every service, every fight. You confided in me and I listened to you.” He brings a hand to his chest, digging in his fingertips. “You know everything about me.”

Kuroo shakes his head again. “I don’t know what to say to you, Kei.”

“ _Something_.” Kei puts his hand back down. “Say something.”

When Kuroo looks back up, his brow is turned up in the middle. The sunlight overhead makes his lashes cast a gentle fan of shadow down over his cheekbone. His lips are chapped and the lower one has a thin crevice of blood on one side. Sometimes he chews on them, peeling the skin away, when he’s upset and alone.

“I don’t know,” Kuroo says.

Kei narrows his eyes at him. “I want an explanation.”

Kuroo doesn’t say anything. He stands there with his lips parted.

Kei sighs and closes his eyes, bringing a hand up to his glasses to adjust them. “We haven’t been with each other in almost two weeks and suddenly you call to dump me.”

“I should have—”

“You’re throwing it all away.” Kei lowers his arm again. “And it’s because of him.”

Kuroo rubs his palms over his face. “Kei…”

“This ten-month stupor he snapped you out of then put you in another one. You barely know him. You just met not even three weeks ago,” Kei mutters. As muted as their fights are, he’s never felt more in his life. When Kuroo doesn’t respond, he laughs once, bitterly. “But I shouldn’t be surprised. You got me in an instant, didn’t you? You hooked me during the _interview_ —no, before then, with a picture in the newspaper. You pulled me away from Ukai’s. That’s really something.”

That defiant frown starts to pull itself onto Kuroo’s features. “So you’re saying you didn’t want to leave?”

Kei looks off to the side. Kuroo’s house is near the top of a hill, and looking out, he can see down past the other rich houses for a few kilometers until things become Tokyo again. “I’m saying that you’re a very powerful man, Kuroo Tetsurou,” he says quietly. If he reached out, he could place his hand on Kuroo’s chest the way he’s done hundreds of times before. He crosses his arms. “You can do whatever you want.”

Kuroo does a scoff that lacks any confidence, putting his hands on his hips. “Look, Kei. It just has to stop now. You don’t have to make this difficult.”

“Me?” Kei leans toward him, but then realizes that there’s no use. Kuroo has never been someone who was easy to reason with, or who thought with his head instead of his heart. Kei just nods instead. “I get it. You’re in love with him, for some reason.”

The frown deepens. “What? He’s—”

“I don’t need you to defend him to me,” Kei says, putting his hand up. “I know he’s a good person. I know that the logistics of this one work out in the way they couldn’t with Daichi.”

“Don’t bring him into this.”

“And that’s why, this time…” Kei turns to meet his gaze again, keeping it there. “You can let me go.”

Kuroo can’t hold it. He looks away again, hands still on his hips, pressing into the fabric of his wrinkled shirt.

“To be honest with you, Tetsurou,” Kei says calmly, “I’m worried for him. Everything is right in that kid’s head except for whatever he’s feeling for you.”

Kuroo’s jaw tightens. “Harsh. I’ve never seen you so immature.”

Kei laughs again. This is all ridiculous. This whole conversation, the whole of nearly the past three years catering to Kuroo’s every want and need. “You’ve worn me down for a long time,” he says. He looks at Kuroo’s profile in front of him. His lenses reflect the sun in bright blocks onto the tension at Kuroo’s neck, flickering around as he speaks. “You’re so smart. You are a truly brilliant person. That you had him locked in before calling me today, just to be sure? That’s impressive. I applaud how low you’re willing to get.”

“Stop it,” Kuroo says.

“You have big plans to sleep with him soon, then? Or have you already? You’re not averse to using the kitchen when nobody else is there. Did you use that card on him, too?”

“Stop, Kei.”

_You’re right_ , Kei thinks. _What’s the point?_

He sighs again, watching Kuroo squeeze his eyes shut and bring his hand to his face again, unconsciously covering it before he pushes his fingers back into his hair.

“You’re right,” Kei says. His voice is coming out in his usual, monotonous drawl. “It’s done. You don’t have to worry about it anymore. You won’t be cheating on him with me like you did with Daichi.”

Kuroo’s jaw clenches tight. “Why are you saying things like that?”

“Because it’s true.” He angles his shoulders directly at Kuroo. “You’re a good person, Tetsurou, and a profoundly gifted chef. But one day you’re going to have to face the fact that you are no longer a good man.”

Kuroo’s eyes close, and though his expression shows anger, and his body language displays contempt, all Kei has ever read from Kuroo’s soul is pain.

It hurts him to hurt him. But what else is there left to do.

As if he understands exactly the same thing, Kuroo mutters, “So what now?”

Kei shakes his head. “I don’t want to talk anymore, Tetsurou.” As the name comes out again from his lungs, it takes all the rest of his breath with it. Suddenly his body feels very heavy. “Do what you want,” he says. “I’ve always just wanted you to be happy.”

The reflections from his lenses are making him stare for too long at Kuroo’s face. He’s been staring for nearly three years now. He takes his glasses off, and Kuroo says nothing about it. He never has.

“What about work?” Kuroo asks.

Kei sighs. “This has nothing to do with work.” He folds his glasses closed and holds them in his hand. His keys jingle in the other, and he closes his fingers around them. “We expect you to show up on time, just like we always have.”

“Kei,” Kuroo says, but Kei doesn’t know what for.

He starts to turn back toward his car, away from Kuroo, but stops halfway. “If he is what will bring you back, then I…”

_Then I…_

He looks down. “Then I’m sorry I couldn’t.”

Kuroo starts to take a step toward him. “What are you talking about, Kei?”

Kei turns his face away first, then begins walking, leaving Kuroo behind. “Nothing anymore, Tetsurou.”

_Nothing at all_.

* * *

**HC: Kuroo never once took Kei on a date.**


	20. "nothing in this world is harder than speaking the truth, nothing easier than flattery."

“Is there anything else either of us can do for you this evening?” Noya asks.

The couple at Kenma’s last table of the night look up at him and Noya. The husband says, “No, thank you very much.”

“It was a lovely dinner and a lovely service,” the wife says.

Kenma bows. “We very much appreciate it. Please allow us to clear your table, and in a moment, our _maître D’_ will be over to show you to the door.”

In ten seconds, with his platter of empty dishes balanced in the palm of his glove, he turns with Noya, wine glasses and empty sixty-thousand-yen bottle in hand, back toward the kitchen.

“Done for the night, huh?” Noya says. “Your accent’s getting better.”

Kenma hums. “I’ll help the last of the tables.”

“I almost told Asahi you’d be coming with us again tonight.” Kenma pauses at Noya’s wine counter as he places down the dirty glasses out of sight of the patrons in the house. Noya meets his eyes, then looks over to the kitchen where the chefs are finishing up final entrées and desserts for tonight’s service. “But then I took a few glances at Tsukishima,” he murmurs.

Kenma turns to follow his gaze.

Tsukishima is a focused chef—his heightened meticulousness is what sets him apart. But Kenma would be lying to himself if he said he didn’t notice the looks Tsukishima gives Kuroo throughout prep and service. The indescribable dynamic between the two of them. From the first night, he recognized something.

_What’s up with that? Them._

_You’re quick. And that’s something none of us know the answer to._

Back then, when the threat of Kuroo’s behavior and the threat of Kenma walking out following his initiating service were still apparent, Ennoshita still felt the need to lie. But just because they don’t know everything doesn’t mean they don’t know enough. There are no secrets among those in Tiger’s Eye.

Noya has figured out the same thing Kenma was already guessing. Tsukishima hardly turned away from the pass once last night or tonight, even when speaking with the chefs, calling for time, asking for elements of the dishes. After yesterday’s service, he went into Akaashi’s office, and left the restaurant early when he came back out.

“And yet,” Noya says, chuckling, “Chef’s still being a pain in the ass. Are you sure you want to deal with someone so…” He tilts his head, and his bangs left down tonight sway over his brow. “Plaintive?”

Kenma watches Kuroo, cracking discs of spiderweb-thin frozen caramel from the antigriddle for Kageyama to place delicately into mascarpone ice cream. Even from here, the expression that’s been stuck on Kuroo’s face since Friday night remains clearly. It’s the same one Kuroo gives him every time they pass in the back hall.

“I guess I shouldn’t be saying that,” Noya says. “We’ve pushed it on you from night one, haven’t we.”

Kenma sighs, looking back at him. “A lot of decisions I make don’t feel like my own.”

Noya whistles. “I guess tomorrow is Thursday, anyway.”

It’s something Kenma has thought about every time he’s looked at the platinum clock tonight.

“Thank you for the offer,” he says.

Noya waves a hand at him, leaning over his countertop. “Stop saying that already. Eventually you won’t be riding with us anymore, so just enjoy my stimulating conversation and Asahi’s weird Tibetan monk music while it lasts.”

The platter is getting heavy in Kenma’s arm. He laughs softly and says, “I don’t mind his music.” He turns and goes to the kitchen.

As he’s putting down the last of the dirty dishes on the steel table, he notices Kageyama at his station next to him, closing the lid on a Tupperware half-depleted of raspberries to set it aside for the night. “Back to cold storage?” he offers.

Kageyama nods to him. “Thanks.”

Kenma sets his platter down, takes the box, and moves down the hallway.

The door for cold storage swings closed when he steps in. His gloves have a muted silken sheen in the low blue-hued light. He places the box onto the shelf with other airtight containers of fruit they don’t keep in the kitchen refrigerator: calamansi, pomegranate, huckleberries. As he’s bringing his arm back down to his side, the door opens again. He doesn’t have to turn to know. Kuroo’s presence has a specific feeling that nobody else gives off.

“Kenma.”

Kenma faces him, and the sound of the door sealing shut closes out the kitchen again. As Kuroo steps toward him, it crosses his mind that this is the first time since Friday that Kuroo has looked him in the eyes for this long. His gaze begs for the answer to the question he hasn’t asked yet.

Kenma’s own voice in his head: _I think he’ll tell me. Soon._

Tendou’s casual response: _Oh yeah? And what are you gonna have to do to get it?_

He says, “Tetsurou,” and his lips tingle in the cold.

Kuroo comes to stand in front of him. “Come home with me tonight.”

Kenma blinks up at him. Has it taken him this long—five days—to work himself up to ask this? Or did he have to wait until whatever happened yesterday before work.

Kenma doesn’t respond.

Kuroo looks sideways. “Just tonight. You…” He shuts his eyes and shakes his head. “Probably shouldn’t. And I have no good reason why you should.”

And Kenma’s response back to Tendou: _I think I want to._

“I just…” Kuroo says. His hand comes up as if it will rest on Kenma’s arm, but it falls back again. “Want you to.”

A chill runs down Kenma’s spine. “And you’re used to getting what you want,” he says.

Kuroo looks down. “I don’t know what humility I can show you. I’m doing my best.”

_Are you?_

He wants the lines. He wants Kuroo to say to him that he’s going to change—not just with him, but for the restaurant and himself. But Kuroo isn’t a man of words, and in the end, people can say anything they want.

_As much as you want it to be_ , Tendou said to him, _it’s not up to you to decide when he lets it out._

But there’s no reason in waiting, or asking Kuroo if he really is doing his best. Just as when he was given the choice so many times to stay at Tiger’s Eye or quit for someplace else, the decision has already been made. He will agree to another mistake.

He looks up at Kuroo’s averted eye and says, “Okay.”

Kuroo leans back, just the slightest. His one dark iris lands on Kenma’s face. “Really?”

Kenma nods.

“We can,” Kuroo shifts on his feet, “leave here last, if you want.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Kenma says. No secrets.

Kuroo swallows. “Right.” He rubs a hand over his forehead, under his bangs. “Right.”

“I’m cold. So.” Kenma moves to go past him, but Kuroo catches his arm.

“I talked to Bo about it.”

Kenma looks up at him again. “Okay.”

Kuroo nods. “So.” He looks at his hand on Kenma’s arm.

“I’m really cold, Chef.” If he doesn’t leave this room right now, something will happen.

Kuroo blinks, as if the title reminded him that they are still at work. He releases his grip. “Sorry.”

Kenma tucks his hair behind his ear. He says, “Mm,” nods again, and goes back through the door into the hall.

_02:53_

_I’m coming home tomorrow_

_02:53_

_isn’t he mister inconspicuous ;]_

He closes his messages with Tendou. From somewhere in the distance, Yaku is shouting at him.

Ennoshita walks up to the cubbies next to him. “You know—”

“I don’t need you to warn me about—”

“If you really mean it,” Ennoshita says. He takes his keys out of his cubby and hooks them onto a finger. “Then my bet is still on you.” He looks sideways at Kenma and smiles gently.

Of course. If anyone knows Kuroo best out of all them, it’s his original four. Ennoshita was the first person hired for this restaurant, and the way he phrased his statement shows exactly where his loyalties lie.

Kenma nods.

Ennoshita spins his keys and catches them in his palm. He pats Kenma’s shoulder as he goes around him toward door number two. “Make the day off worth it.”

Kenma watches him disappear out to the parking lot.

Hinata, Kageyama, Noya, Iwaizumi, and Yuuji have all already left—with a soft, resigned _Night, Kenma_ from the last. Kuroo and Akaashi have been in his office; Bokuto and Tsukishima are still in the kitchen. Kenma pockets his phone and walks back in.

“You’re still here, kid,” Bokuto says with no questioning tone about it.

“Anything I can help with?” He accidentally catches a flash of Tsukishima’s lenses and looks there. When the light clears and their eyes meet, Akaashi’s door opens.

Kuroo steps out in his T-shirt and looks at the scene before him. He pauses, then pushes a hand through the back of his hair, walking around the open wall and past the kitchen to the hallway.

“No,” Tsukishima answers. “It looks like we’re done.”

Kenma imagines Kuroo, out of sight but within earshot, wincing at his flat, disinterested tone. They can all hear the back door open and shut.

Kenma won’t be in the middle of this. Whether or not it’s done between the two of them, he intends to find out tonight.

“You’re welcome to head out,” Akaashi tells them.

Tsukishima adjusts his glasses, nods, and rounds his way toward the door. When he leaves, Bokuto sighs heavily and pushes his hair back from his forehead. “Yeesh. I’m tortured.”

“You think you are,” Akaashi says quietly, looking toward the empty hall. He glances at Kenma. “I apologize. You can forget I said that.”

“I believe you,” Kenma says.

Akaashi stares at him, then looks again at Bokuto. “Ready?”

“As always.”

Akaashi flicks off all the lights, and Kenma follows them outside. Kuroo is leaning against the back wall with his jacket hooked over his elbow, eyes trained on the concrete. Neither Akaashi nor Bokuto say anything, just lock the door, step off the curb, and head toward their cars.

Kenma goes to him. “They all know,” he says.

Kuroo takes a breath and sighs it out. “Maybe not Hinata, or Kageyama.”

Kenma looks out at the last car left in the lot as Akaashi and Bokuto pull away. “You underestimate them. I don’t know Kageyama very well, but Hinata is a lot more attuned to these kinds of things than you think.”

Kuroo looks over at him, his eye catching the orange from the sodium streetlight above. “I’m sure I’m hanging myself by asking this, but why—”

“Then don’t.”

A breeze blows at Kuroo’s bangs, but with their shadow, it’s still too dark to see anything underneath them.

Kenma dips his head out toward the lot, hair brushing across his cheek. “Take me there.”

His second car ride with Kuroo is similar to the first, but this time, more fear comes off of Kuroo than before. He keeps bringing his hand up to cover his mouth, rubbing, staring intently out through the windshield. At one point, at a stoplight, Kenma nearly turns to him to tell him to relax, but it wouldn’t make any difference. What part of him is so intimidating, he doesn’t know, but it probably won’t go away until Kuroo changes his perspective.

Or maybe Kuroo is aware that tonight, he’s going to have to fess up.

They pull into Kuroo’s driveway and step out of the car. The house is large, modern, and minimalistic in an angular, cold sort of way. Kenma stands on the path leading to the door and looks out past the fence around the lawn down into the city in the distance.

In the quiet, Kuroo says, “We picked the house together.”

Kenma watches him walk up the steps to the front door. He brings his keys up to the lock, but shakes his head and turns the knob without them. He holds the door open and looks at Kenma in the dark.

Kenma blinks. “What?”

“My fiancé and I.” He motions his hand, inviting Kenma in.

Kenma stares at him.

Of course it’s about love. He’s starting to think that for Kuroo, everything is.

How much more complicated did things just get?

In the silence between them, Kuroo lowers his hand. The one on the doorknob squeezes with a click of shifting metal. “Ex,” he says, then angles his face downward. “I can call a car to come get you if—”

“Pardon the intrusion.” Kenma walks past Kuroo into the house.

He can feel Kuroo’s stare follow him in, little pinpricks on his back where Kuroo’s eyes watch him in surprise. Eventually, Kuroo closes the door behind them and goes to the kitchen, flicking on the light. Kenma glances around, but there isn’t much to see in the dim.

Kuroo stands by the counter, clutching his jacket in one hand. “Do you want to eat?”

Kenma shakes his head. “No, thank you. I’m not hungry.”

“Yeah. Neither am I.”

“Should I have taken my shoes off at the door?”

“Oh.” Kuroo waves a hand. “I don’t care either way.”

“All right.” He waits for Kuroo to say something else, but Kuroo is just standing there looking at him. He takes a breath. “Where’s your room?”

Kuroo swallows.

He leads the way for Kenma to follow into the master bedroom. It’s as plain as everything else, grey sheets, a closet and an _en suite_. Curtains are pulled open from a landscape window half the size of one wall, looking out onto the lawn, the fence, and beyond. The three-quarter moon hangs in the sky, hazy and half-hidden by thin clouds. The windowsill is dusty in the corners.

Kenma switches on a bedside lamp and starts to untuck his shirt.

Kuroo looks at him. “Are you…”

“Let’s talk.” He undoes the buttons on his sleeves, brings a foot up and takes off his shoes by the heels. “Can I sit on your bed?”

_Did you hear that?_ subconscious Tendou says. _He asked to_ sit _on the bed._

“Of course,” Kuroo manages.

Kenma climbs up and sits crisscross, tucking his toes under. He looks up at Kuroo and waits.

Kuroo nods. With his shoes off and jacket hung somewhere in the bathroom, he comes back into the room, rounds the bed to the other side, and joins Kenma, facing him, resting his elbows on his knees. After a while, he says, “Since we kissed…”

“You’ve hardly spoken to me,” Kenma says.

Kuroo makes a small noise in his throat. He turns his face sideways. “You didn’t speak much to me, either.”

Kenma can accept that. It seems that neither of them knew what to say, much less how to go about it. “You’re right.” He tucks his hair behind his ears.

Kuroo sighs and looks at him again. “Since then, I’ve been,” he touches his fingers together in his lap, “thinking about you. All the time.”

“I know.” Kuroo begs with his eyes again, so Kenma says, “So have I.”

Kuroo clears his throat. “Right. Thank god.”

Kenma tilts his head. “What’s going on with you and Tsukishima?”

The bedside lamp washes Kuroo in yellow, but it doesn’t hide the blush that creeps onto his cheeks. “Nothing anymore. I broke it off with him. Yesterday.”

A sad sense of relief seeps into Kenma’s mind. At the very least, he’s not standing between the two of them anymore. Whether he broke them apart, or if there were other things involved, he has no idea. He won’t know until he knows the full story, starting ten months ago.

“What was it with him?” he asks. “Between you?”

Kuroo sighs again, looking anywhere but his eyes. “It was a,” he shakes his head, “relationship. For about two years.”

Two years? Then what about ten months? _What about your fiancé?_

All at once, things begin to piece together in Kenma’s head on their own.

He says evenly, “You’re a cheater.”

Kuroo laces his fingers together and holds them tight. “I’m not. I—” He frowns heavily, and his jaw tightens. “I did, but I’m not. I hate that I did. I regret it all the time.” He looks up at Kenma. “That’s why I broke it off with Kei yesterday. I didn’t want to do that to you.”

_Why? Because you value me?_

But he can’t say that. Like Tendou told him, it’s something he ought to expect, but can never ask for.

“Wouldn’t it have been to him?” he says instead.

Kuroo’s mouth opens, but he looks down again, squeezing his hands together. “I didn’t want to do it again at all.”

“And when you kissed me?”

Kuroo’s eyes clench shut. He rubs his hands over his face. “I know. I’ve thought about that, too. Akaashi would have kicked my ass over it if I had told him.” His arms fall back down to his lap and he hunches over, shoulders slumping. “I couldn’t help it. I had to.”

Kenma lifts his eyebrows calmly. “I feel like someone who cheats might say that.”

“I don’t _mean_ that,” Kuroo says quickly. He looks directly into Kenma’s face. “The last time I saw Kei was the week you joined. I couldn’t since then. All I can think about is you.” He pauses, breathing. When Kenma doesn’t reply, he says, “I should have broken things off before I kissed you, but I didn’t know it was going to happen. I didn’t know you would stay behind that night and say the things you said to me.”

_The problem, Tetsurou,_ he thinks, _is that you intended to. And in the pantry—what about that? How quickly was it, after we met, that you started thinking about me and couldn’t stop?_

It’s all so dramatic. From when he walked into the restaurant, to the times he’s been in Akaashi’s office, to Kuroo’s flare-ups in the house, to their scene in the kitchen together—all the way up to this very moment. He’s foolish for being here, and even more so for accepting what Kuroo is saying. But he’s the most foolish for feeling something. For being unable to look away from Kuroo’s face.

“I know you don’t like the work me,” Kuroo murmurs. “But do you like the rest of me?”

Kenma does a long, soft sigh. In his head, he goes over everything Tendou and Yaku, his two voices of reason, have said to him. “I like figuring things out,” he says, “and you’re an interesting, vulnerable person.”

Kuroo’s hands lace back together.

“That’s why this is bad,” Kenma says. He sighs again, looking at the way the light casts over half of Kuroo’s face and body, his shoulders pulling his shirt taut, the slope of his nose and the thin stroke of shadow between his lips. “But we’re both adults,” he says, “and I don’t think there’s any confusion over whether we’re attracted to each other.”

“No. I am,” Kuroo says. “Very.”

Kenma nods. “I believe there’s a you that exists that I’ve yet to see. But for some reason you’re not showing me, so I’m trying to figure you out. It seems like everyone wants me to. You’ve been a project that everyone is waiting to see completed.” He hears Ennoshita’s voice in his head, humming and saying, _He lets his guard down with you_. “Whether they intended for us to,” he takes another breath, “develop something…”

But no—there’s no question about it, especially when it comes to those like Ennoshita or Akaashi. If Kuroo has yet to return to what was once a finished product, then they knew something like this might have to happen for him to get there again.

A lot of this is just stalling, waiting for the right moment when it probably won’t come. Kenma thinks of Tendou telling him that it’s not up to him to decide, and Yaku’s exasperated, firm, and earnest words back in Yokohama: _You know that you probably won’t make a difference, right? If a change happens, it’ll have to be him._

He shouldn’t ask for it outright. But what else can he do? Here, in this house, on this bed, Kuroo is far too tempting.

His heart beats steadily in his chest.

“To move further,” he says, “I need to know what it is that makes this more than just that.”

Kuroo gazes at him. “What do you mean?”

“I need to understand what the problem is.” Kenma shakes his head at himself. After all this time, this is what it comes down to—that all he wants is to understand. “I shouldn’t be asking this, but I want you to explain yourself. What keeps holding you back from me and your team. From changing the restaurant. Or the menu.” He looks at the curtain of Kuroo’s bangs, but he still can’t see anything past them.

Kuroo’s brow slants upward in the middle the same way it always does. His lips part, but close again. His hands are still clasped together, white with pressure, as if taking them apart again will make him say something he doesn’t want to. “I have no excuse,” he says.

“I don’t need an excuse,” Kenma says. “I only need a reason.”

“I—” He looks away. “The stress of the restaurant, and…”

“‘They may all be drunk at my place,’” Kenma recites slowly. He picks up one of Kuroo’s pillows and brings it against his chest, wrapping his arms around it. Kuroo watches him. “‘But they’re all honest, and though we do lie—because I lie, too—in the end we’ll lie our way to the truth…’” He tilts his face down just the slightest into the fabric and breathes in the smell of Kuroo.

“What…what is that?” Kuroo asks quietly.

“ _Crime and Punishment_. Fyodor Dostoevsky,” Kenma says. He hugs the pillow tighter, shifting his legs. “In high school, my best friend read it for a class. He only liked it because he’s half Russian, and when we became friends he insisted I read it even though I wasn’t in the same class as him. I read it for his sake, and then I decided to become a literature major in university.”

Kuroo says, “You went to university?”

Kenma blinks at him. He realizes then just how little they know about each other. Aside from brief moments during service and the arguments they’ve had, the only time they’ve really spoken to each other was that Friday night.

Without meaning to, he laughs. “Yeah. I did.”

Kuroo blinks back. “So. You like reading?”

Kenma hums. “I like the truth.” He rubs a thumb against the pillow, back and forth; Kuroo’s eyes flick down to it, stay there for a moment, then look back up. “Even if an author is lying or the narrator is unreliable, the novel itself still gives you the truth, no matter how hard they try to hide it. I can trust it to do that.”

After a moment, Kuroo nods. “I understand.”

“Do you?”

In the pause, they stare at each other. Kuroo’s gaze flicks back and forth between Kenma’s eyes.

Kenma says, “I want you to tell me, Tetsurou.”

At the sound of his name from Kenma’s lips, Kuroo’s hands finally break apart.

“I’m from here,” Kuroo says, “before I went to Kyoto to work at In Flight with Sugawara Koushi. I met Daichi when I was applying to culinary programs. We had both recently graduated high school. We were young.” He sighs, and to Kenma, it sounds shaky. “We just…fell for each other. During my program, he rooted for me, helped me when I wasn’t feeling confident or the stress was getting to me, all while still having a job of his own. He got along easily with Bo and Akaashi. He was the first person to congratulate me when I got my job with Sugawara, and he was more than happy to go there with me. He was the first to congratulate me on anything. I never wanted for love from him. He was the kindest person I’ve ever known.” He brings a hand up and pushes at his hair on his left side. “By the time I’d decided to go off on my own as a chef, I also decided to ask him to marry me, and he said yes, but we chose to put off anything further until we were settled into our new life. We picked this house and came to Tokyo, since I’d decided to start Tiger’s Eye with Bo and Akaashi. I hired Ennoshita…” He clicks his tongue and looks down. “And I hired Kei.”

It all fits together in Kenma’s mind. He nods and says nothing.

Kuroo clears his throat again. “We got our team, opened, and took off. With the amount of work we put in, we received our first star in our first year at the fastest pace for that cycle in Tokyo, except for Oikawa Tooru at Blue. Daichi was happy for me, celebrated my accomplishments. He—” He stops, and his brow furrows into a frown. “He never once complained about the time, or my schedule. Not once.” But the anger breaks just as quickly, and he says, “But I suppose he shouldn’t have had to.” He shakes his head. “And, for no reason that I can remember besides selfishness, I started seeing Kei about a year in. Almost eight months after that, after we’d gotten our second star, Daichi broke things off and left me.” He sniffs and glances around his room, at his closet and the bedside table across from him, before looking down again. “I spent the next six months working harder than I ever had—burning myself out to get that coveted third star that Daichi always wanted me to get. That was ten months ago.”

He stops with finality. Nothing more to say.

But Kenma doesn’t need anymore. The succinctness with which Kuroo told the story let each gear fit together. Even down to the timing of it all, he understands everything.

For ten months—or for a lot longer than that—Kuroo has been sabotaging himself.

But one thing about it is bothering him the most, sticking out from the rest as the one part he doesn’t get. The thing that he’s been dealing with since he arrived at Tiger’s Eye almost three weeks ago.

Why, when he asked almost everybody else in the restaurant what happened to Kuroo, did none of them have an answer?

He looks into Kuroo’s face and says, “Why didn’t anybody know?”

Pink scratches at Kuroo’s cheeks again. He looks intensely at Kenma like that was the last thing he expected him to ask.

But of course he would ask. Yaku was right. Kuroo told him everything, and all he cares enough to know are the parts that pertain to him. He’s an analyzer, and he’s selfish.

_But that’s fine,_ subconscious Yaku tells him, _because_ _this is all in the past. He needs to just get ov—_

“What?” Kuroo breathes.

“When you separated,” Kenma says, “why didn’t anyone in the restaurant know about it?”

Kuroo swallows heavily. “Because…aside from Bokuto and Akaashi, they didn’t really know about him.”

It cuts a thin line into Kenma’s skin—an annoying, stinging cat scratch. _They knew_ , he thinks. _Just not enough._ “You kept him a secret?”

“We didn’t wear our rings because of work,” Kuroo explains. “And I didn’t talk about him there. Back then, I was—better. But it’s still a stressful place, and I didn’t want Daichi to be a part of it. I wanted my life with him to be solely happy.” He shakes his head again. “Looking back, that was my first mistake. Separating those two parts of my life, keeping him from it. Or believing that, mutually exclusive, I could have both.”

Suddenly, the line flashes into Kenma’s mind again, one of the first things Akaashi said to him ages ago before he had even stepped foot in the restaurant: _Consider what you would have to put aside, and what you’d be willing to give up._

“He knew you were cheating,” he says. “Even before you separated.” Kuroo nods at the bed. “Did Tsukishima?” Kenma asks.

Another nod. “He’s smart. He figured it out quickly, before we ever started. I never let him come here, anyway.”

Kenma doesn’t have the time to think about what that says about Tsukishima. He sits there, unable to take his eyes away from Kuroo’s face. “You’ve been awful.”

Kuroo looks off to the side. His voice comes out rough and quiet. “I know.”

“You should have separated from Daichi long before then.”

Kuroo’s brow twitches back into a frown. “We were engaged. I loved him.”

“That doesn’t matter.”

The anger on Kuroo’s face doesn’t change, but he doesn’t reply either.

Kenma hugs the pillow closer to himself, gripping it in his hands. His hair is starting to fall back to the sides of his face. He says, “You should let him go.”

Kuroo glances at him, then back at the wall. “That’s really great advice.”

“Not for your sake,” Kenma says. “You should let _him_ go.” He waits for Kuroo to look at him. “It was his choice to leave. Clinging to it is refusing to give him what he asked for.”

“That’s such an easy sentiment,” Kuroo shoots back. “Have you ever lost a fiancé before?”

“No, but I’ve never cheated on anybody either.”

“Aren’t you a saint.”

Kenma stops. He won’t let this turn into a fight. Maybe there’s finally someone more stubborn about their emotions than he is.

If Kuroo wants to refuse cooperation and break any chance at being on equal ground with each other, then for all of his trying, there is nothing Kenma can do. Zero-sum it is.

He shakes his head. “Okay, Tetsurou.” He rests his chin down on the pillow and looks at the bed between them.

The silence is uncomfortable, Kuroo messing with the leg of his pants, Kenma waiting. Finally, Kuroo huffs and puts the heels of his hands against his eyes. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that, and you’re right. I’ve been on the defensive for so long. At some point I forgot how to not be such an asshole.” He rubs at his face. “You don’t have any way to trust me.”

Kenma sighs quietly. “‘…because we’re on a noble path.’”

Kuroo takes his hands away. “What?”

“That’s the rest of the line. ‘In the end we’ll lie our way to the truth because we’re on a noble path.’ The truth happens because it’s meant to.” He gazes up at Kuroo again. “I know you’re not happy. I appreciate your honesty.”

Kuroo pauses, staring, and then says, “God.” He tilts down onto the bed and rolls to his back, letting his legs stretch out. His arms lie at his sides. “I’m such a dick.”

Looking down at him, Kenma tilts his head.

“I know I’m capable of it,” Kuroo says. “I’ve been very happy before. I always was. I used to be…” he swallows heavily, “a better man.”

All at once, something Kenma should have considered long before lights up in his head. Subconscious Tendou leans back into his theater seat, crossing his arms and raising his eyebrows, enjoying the show. Subconscious Yaku next to him shouts exasperated at the screen, _That’s just a loophole!_

It was harder for Kenma, coming in to Tiger’s Eye so late and not knowing anything else than what he could see. But this whole time, he’s forgotten that one simple thing—the evidence that each of those he asked told him. The same thing he’s heard from everybody he trusts.

Kuroo was fine until something, which Kenma now knows originated externally, changed. Kuroo hasn’t always been like this. His baseline is _good_.

“The good news,” he says. He feels a smile trying to form on his mouth and stops it. “Is that people don’t really change.”

Kuroo inclines his head toward him. That desperate look has come over him again, the tilt of his eyebrow, the shimmer in his dark eye. “I can try.”

“I understand you,” Kenma says. Those words coming out of his mouth feel like a great achievement after all this time of not even knowing where to begin. “I don’t know exactly what you’re feeling, but I understand it. And now I think that—” He can’t help it. The smile comes anyway. “It’s your turn to figure things out.”

“I don’t know how to do it,” Kuroo nearly whispers, staring at his lips.

Kenma shrugs and says simply, “None of us do.”

Kuroo opens his mouth to say something, but stops. He sighs, sits up again and hunches forward, tapping at the sheets between them. “I bet that my attitude is all one huge turn-off. I’ve been spineless.”

Kenma just hums.

Kuroo nods. “I’m sorry for the way I treated you. When you first came here. I know I’ve said I’m sorry before, but I mean it. My past isn’t an excuse and I don’t know yet how to make up for it. I’m trying to look into myself and reason out why I…”

“Then that’s all I want,” Kenma says. “I forgive you.”

Yaku might be standing from his seat, and Tendou might be holding his stomach laughing, but Kenma decides to turn off the screen.

“Kenma.” Kuroo is staring at him. “Why did you agree to come here?”

Pause. Check inventory.

_Because I felt something. Because you did to me what you did to everybody else. Because I know you wanted desperately for me to be here with you, just so you might not feel so alone anymore, and for some reason it bothers me very much to see you actually, truly upset._

Ennoshita’s voice from that very first night: _Because you seem like you can do something about it._

But all that comes out is, “I guess because I’m a lunatic.”

Kuroo starts to move toward him.

“Wait.”

Kuroo stops. He’s leaning forward onto one hand, less than a meter away from Kenma now. The light of the bedside lamp catches in his eye and glints in a crescent curve at the edge of his iris as he breathes. His lips are parted.

Kenma says, hushed, “Swear to me that I don’t care more than you do. Don’t lie. If I do, tell me right now.”

“You don’t,” Kuroo replies, matching his tone. “It’s been too long. Bo told me to get my act together. I need to figure it out.”

“Do you think this was a bad idea?”

Kuroo swallows. “It might have been for you, because I’m not worth it yet. And it was for me, because if I can’t meet your expectations, then I’ll be stuck with the memory of this forever, but you won’t be there anymore. And I’m…” he glances sideways, “kind of a wallowy person.”

He says it so sadly, and it’s so obvious, that Kenma almost laughs. “You’re going to tell me the truth from here on out?” he asks.

Kuroo nods.

“Mm. Okay.”

Kuroo doesn’t move.

“Okay, Tetsurou,” Kenma whispers again, and he moves the pillow away from between them, brings his hands up to Kuroo’s face, and pulls him in.

It’s immediately deep. Kuroo’s hands find his sides and tug him closer, so Kenma uncrosses his legs and shifts toward him. Kuroo’s mouth is soft but frantic, fraught and insistent as his hands slot around Kenma’s waist. Kenma has a heightened sense of the smooth glide of Kuroo’s tongue against his, Kuroo’s fingers pressing into his skin through his shirt, and the faint tickle of Kuroo’s bangs against his cheek once again. He brings his hands down from Kuroo’s face and starts to pull Kuroo’s shirt up from his hips, sliding his hands up his back.

Kuroo releases his waist and breaks the kiss for long enough to pull the shirt over his head and drop it behind him onto the floor. He goes to lean back in, but Kenma places his hands on his chest and he stops, drawing in a quiet breath.

For a moment, Kenma looks at him, sitting there on his knees. Kuroo’s skin is smooth, flushed pink and warm nearer to his neck. His upper body is firm, carved out with dips and shadows in the spaces where certain muscles have sculpted just enough over time from consistent work, continuous use. The lines of his collar to his shoulders; the curves of his upper arms. Kenma brushes his fingertips along his chest, to the sides and down his ribs.

Kuroo shivers under his touch, and says, “You.”

Kenma nods.

Kuroo’s hands come to the buttons of his shirt and undo them from the top. Kenma realizes they’re shaking just the slightest before Kuroo slips the shirt gently off of him, sliding his palms along his shoulders and down his arms, all the way to his wrists until the sleeves come off, and Kuroo puts the shirt behind him with his own. Kenma remains still while Kuroo takes a few seconds to look at him before threading his fingers through Kenma’s hair on one side and squeezing his thigh again in the other hand. Kuroo leans back in, dipping his head down to place a kiss on his shoulder, his collarbone, his neck; Kenma tilts his chin up, closes his eyes, brings his hands around Kuroo’s chest to his back. Kuroo’s tongue is warm and slow, and when he bites gently into Kenma’s skin, Kenma gasps, wrapping his arms tighter and pressing his fingertips into flesh, clutching Kuroo in his grip. Kuroo’s hands move, one splaying out on Kenma’s middle back as the other tucks under his thigh. He lays Kenma onto the bed to kneel over him.

He gives Kenma another kiss and then pulls up, looking down into his face. “Kenma?” he breathes.

“The light.”

Kuroo reaches over and switches it off. When he comes back, placing his hands on either side of Kenma’s shoulders, his eye widens suddenly. “Your eyes.”

“What?” Kenma asks.

“They’re…”

Lev, ages ago, in the middle of the night during a full moon, looking over at Kenma in the dark: _Whoa, Kenma, you’re like a cat. They’re glowing!_

“They’re really bright,” Kuroo says.

“Thank you.” Kenma reaches his left hand up and places it on Kuroo’s cheek. Kuroo sighs and his eye slips closed. He moves his arm so that his wrist is touching Kenma’s shoulder—any piece of skin that he can connect. Kenma brushes his thumb against Kuroo’s cheekbone, and then, with the backs of his fingers, he starts to push Kuroo’s bangs away from his eye.

Kuroo flinches, chokes, and turns his face away.

Kenma says, “Let me.”

He watches Kuroo swallow hard, take a breath and turn his face back, looking into Kenma’s eyes. Kenma brings his hand back up and brushes Kuroo’s bangs to the side.

His eyes flit around Kuroo’s face, surveying his features: his skin, his lips, his nose, the shape of his chin, his sharp brows, and…

“It looks…”

“What?” Kuroo pleads. Kenma can hear his hands digging into the sheets next to his body.

“Just like the other half.” He brings his right hand up to hold Kuroo’s face in his palms. He dusts light fingertips under Kuroo’s right eye, then cradles his jaw, pushing his fingers into the edges of Kuroo’s hair around his ears. “You’re symmetrical. You look softer this way.”

Kuroo whispers, “Oh.”

“You are extremely handsome,” Kenma says.

And Kuroo answers, “Please let me kiss you.”

Kenma hums. He brings his hands down to Kuroo’s hips, playing his fingers at the waistband of his pants. “More than that.”

Kuroo leans down to meet his lips.

* * *

**HC: Because Daichi was never flashy or wanting attention, Kuroo asked him to marry him one night after dinner, home alone. They hadn’t started planning a wedding yet. Given that they both had jobs where they could easily damage or lose their rings, they kept them in a glass box on their nightstand that Daichi dusted every day. The box is now somewhere in the back of Kuroo’s closet. Only one ring is in it, because while he could sell his own, he hasn’t been able to bring himself to let go of the other.**


	21. "not to be themselves, to be as unlike themselves as they can. that's what they regard as the highest point of progress."

Kuroo sleeps with his face in the pillow. The cloud that dimmed the room a few moments ago moves away, and Kenma watches the midday sun brighten Kuroo’s skin through the window. His upper back is visible from the sheets, his arms under the pillow under his head. His face his half-squished into the fabric, with his eyes closed and a slight frown creasing his brow. A gentle flush dusts his cheeks like a faint watercolor, leftover from last night. His body is warm.

Next to him under the covers, Kenma sighs softly and makes himself blink.

The first time was good, normal and easy. It was the feeling of Kuroo’s hips between his legs, the weight of Kuroo over him, the one hand that kept squeezing his thigh, his waist, and kept gliding smoothly along his body. Kuroo’s musty human smell and the way the moonlight kept flickering in and out of his eyes with Kuroo’s steady movements above him. Kuroo’s mouth rarely left his neck, face, and lips, and that was the way Kenma wanted it.

The second time was slower. They lied pressed against each other, moving less and feeling more, preferring the closeness and drawing it out for as long as it could be. Fewer kisses, because Kuroo just kept looking at him, kept saying his name and pushing his hair back from his face. And even when Kenma couldn’t keep his eyes open anymore and was gripped around Kuroo too tightly, clinging to his body despite the heat and the beading of sweat on their skin, Kuroo still just said _Kenma_ and moved just a little bit more until Kenma’s hair was in his face and his mouth, and his forehead was pressed into Kuroo’s shoulder and he could barely breathe.

His body fit nicely against Kuroo’s chest for a while before Kuroo pulled away.

In the end, he doesn’t doubt that Kuroo was telling the truth. What will be more difficult is following through. Kuroo won’t suddenly change overnight, and Kenma gets the idea that it will be hard for him to do the things he wants to. If he’s still this hung up, one night won’t make enough of a difference. It will take work.

But the difference to Kenma now—after realizing last night while talking to Kuroo that one fundamental fact that everyone tried to show him—is that it’s no longer a question of whether or not Kuroo _can_ do it. Looking at Kuroo in front of him, he doesn’t know if Kuroo _will_.

His phone screen lights back up with a notification that his ride will be here in less than ten minutes.

He sits up as another cloud passes over the sun. He lands lightly on his feet on the floor and tiptoes over to his clothes, pulling them on. The tailored fit should be uncomfortable immediately after leaving bed, but the uniform feels natural on him. As of now, he spends more than half of his life in it.

He slips his shoes on and walks out to the living room. In the daylight, the house is big and empty, like a model home for show before anybody actually moves in. A sofa that looks nearly new, a coffee table with nothing on it, a rug that has hardly been stepped on. Kuroo doesn’t even own a television. There’s so much empty space that the sound of Kenma’s shoe heels on the hardwood echoes faintly back at him from the walls. Almost everything is dusty.

The house isn’t lived in, only used.

On his next breath, his eyes squeeze shut and he sneezes.

From the bedroom: “Kenma?”

He hears the sound of ruffling sheets, then quick padding footsteps. Kuroo appears from his bedroom, shirtless and in only his boxer briefs that land at mid-thigh. His bangs are covering his eye again, and his expression is panicked until he sees Kenma there and sighs.

“Kenma. What’s—where are you going?” His visible eye is taking in the fact that Kenma is dressed and nearing the front door.

“Home,” Kenma says.

Kuroo looks back up at him. “It’s Thursday.”

Kenma nods. “My roommate has a four-day weekend. We’re going to hang out.”

Kuroo blinks. “But how will you get home?”

“I ordered a ride.” He holds his phone up.

“Oh.”

Kuroo’s body gives everything away—the way his feet shift and his shoulders slump a centimeter. _You want me to stay_ , Kenma thinks. _Then why did you pull away from me last night?_

He’s too tired to play anything anymore. Whatever game began at Tiger’s Eye when he arrived there is coming to a close. Besides—there’s no reason he shouldn’t just ask. Whether or not Kuroo will answer truthfully is something he has no control over anyway.

“Why did you pull away last night?” he asks.

Kuroo looks sideways and swallows. “I felt guilty and got overwhelmed. I’m scared of you.”

Okay. That much is honest, even if it isn’t quite right. _You’re scared of what you have to do if you want to be with me_.

“Well.” Kenma brushes his hair from the sides of his face. “Don’t be.”

“I have to reconcile things in my mind,” Kuroo says.

Kenma nods. “That’s fine.”

“But I don’t…” Kuroo looks back at him, “want this to be one time.”

There is no reason butterflies should start fluttering around inside of him. None at all.

Yaku and Tendou’s voices speak at the same time:

_You have feelings for him. Right?_

_You like mister tiger exec, don’t you._

He says, “I know, Tetsurou.” He sighs and looks sideways too, into Kuroo’s empty kitchen. “I don’t think I do either.” He looks back, and there is equally no reason he should be blushing. “It was nice. Talking to you.”

They actually spoke with each other more, between the first and second times. Useless, empty things, but things nonetheless. He can hardly remember half of it, but in the moment, he remembers being happy.

Kuroo’s eye widens just the slightest. “Yeah. I thought so, too.” He pauses and then says, “I went to the Hibarida Culinary Institute, by the way. For my program.” He brings his hand up to his neck and the flush on his cheeks deepens. “It’s the one I followed Bo to. It was our dream school.”

A smile tries to slip onto Kenma’s lips. “I went to Keio University. It was the school that accepted me.”

Kuroo laughs quietly. His lips curve out and a sliver of his teeth shows, and there are crescent lines at the sides of his mouth and little wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. It takes Kenma a moment of staring at it to realize it’s the first time he’s ever seen Kuroo genuinely smile.

“If you want,” Kuroo says. His smile falters and he looks down, taking a deep breath. “You can call me Tetsu.”

Kenma tilts his head. “Is that what you want?”

Kuroo doesn’t answer for a while. He regards the floor and Kenma can see his gaze flicking around, remembering things Kenma might not ever know. Finally, he nods. “Yes. At least when we’re alone together.”

So Kenma says, “Okay.”

Kuroo nods again. “You can’t stay longer?”

The smile almost happens this time. “I already slept too late.”

“You were comfortable,” Kuroo realizes, staring at him.

His phone lights up again, but he doesn’t look at it. “Yeah. I was.”

Kuroo touches his hands together. “Will you get home safely?”

“I’ll do my best.”

A nod. “You don’t want breakfast or anything? I’d be happy to make something for you.”

Kenma’s mind goes to the dish he watched Kuroo put together back in the restaurant. How incredible it was, even when Kuroo didn’t think it was up to his own harsh standards. Still, even if Kuroo did have any food in this kitchen, Kenma wouldn’t accept the offer today. “I think I’m going to make something for my roommate,” he says. “He does a lot for me and I rarely do for him.”

“What’s he like?” Kuroo asks.

Maybe, if they do this again, they can talk a lot more. “He’s one of my closest friends.”

“Oh. That’s nice of you then,” Kuroo says.

“Mhm.”

“Then…” Kuroo nods one more time. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Mm.” Before turning to leave, he says, “Next time, don’t pull away.”

Kuroo’s eyebrow lifts in the middle as it always does, but he makes the effort to straighten his shoulders. “I won’t.”

“Okay.” He lets himself smile. “Bye, Tetsu.”

When he walks through their apartment door just past noon, Tendou is lying in his bed facing away from him, watching a video on his phone. The two of them have always agreed on the best way to spend days off.

“I’m home,” Kenma says.

Tendou pauses his video and turns his head unnaturally far over his shoulder to look at him. “Walk of shame.”

Kenma doesn’t bother replying.

Tendou shuts his phone off and twists his body around. “So? Is tiger exec amazing in bed?”

Kenma kicks his shoes off and starts unbuttoning his shirt. “He’s still in love with his ex-fiancé.”

Tendou sits up. “Sorry. Come again?”

Kenma tosses his shirt onto his bed, finds a hoodie and pulls it on. “Who he cheated on with our sous chef I was telling you about.”

Tendou watches him with his brows slightly raised and his eyes lidded, calm as ever on the surface. “For the love of god,” he says, “and for the wellbeing of Lev, don’t ever tell Yaku about this.”

“I won’t.” He puts on a pair of sweatpants and sits on his own bed across the room from Tendou. “Until it’s worked out.”

“Worked out,” Tendou echoes, pushing his hair back.

“He called it off with Tsukishima,” Kenma says. “And he said he’s going to work on himself.”

Tendou lifts an eyebrow. “Do you believe him?”

Kenma scoots to lean back against the wall. “I believe the words he said.”

“But he has to prove it.”

Kenma nods. “He’s kind of…sad.”

“Uh-oh. Be wary of depressed older guys,” Tendou says. “That’ll get you crazy. I freak out when Waka gets even a little sad.”

Kenma frowns at him. “Aren’t you older than him?”

“Only in body.”

Kenma snorts. “I think Tetsurou will actually do something about it.”

Tendou laughs once and leans back onto his hands. “Oh man.” Kenma tilts his head, so Tendou smiles and says, “You’re on a first-name, no-honorific basis.”

_It’s rather worse than that. He requested a nickname._ Kenma opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. He looks into his lap.

“Look. Nothing that guy comes up with can surprise me anymore.” Tendou sighs and stretches his neck to the side. “If you’ve taken it on as your duty, then,” he salutes, “aye aye, captain.”

“It’s not like that,” Kenma mutters.

Tendou gives him a look that says, _Sure it isn’t._ “You think it’ll be different at the restaurant now?”

Kenma shakes his head. “I don’t know.”

He doesn’t have any more next steps to take. All of his objectives have been completed, so all that’s left is to see if Kuroo follows through on his end. And to dodge everyone’s reactions in Tiger’s Eye when he returns tomorrow afternoon.

He says to his hands, “He really likes me.”

“Of course he does.”

Kenma feels his cheeks warm, and he looks up at his roommate.

“You’re hard not to like,” Tendou says. “You’re capable, intelligent, accomplished, and good-looking. You’re a catch.”

Kenma wonders for a moment what he did to receive a roommate—a friend—like Tendou in his life. For no reason other than that it’s in his nature, he’s caring, thoughtful, and—

“And you have a scientifically sexually attractive voice, so you probably turn him on constantly.”

—very, very Tendou.

“Which part of chemistry deals with voices again?” Kenma asks. At the same time, he remembers Yuuji saying, _Goes great with your voice_ , and decides to push it away.

Tendou waves a hand. “You’re breathy. I use even a bit of that on Waka and he loses it.”

“I’m going to never speak again.”

Tendou laughs aloud. Then he sighs again and looks gently at Kenma. “I know you don’t want advice, so I want you to know that I’m not judging you, okay? I’ve been in my fair share of less-than-smooth relationships. I guess, for now, if you’re waiting, then that’s how it’ll be.” He shrugs. “As long as you enjoyed yourself, then last night was fine, right?”

As long as Kuroo meant it. As long as he didn’t lie.

Kenma nods.

“Though I am surprised,” Tendou says, standing and stretching his arms up. “I wouldn’t have expected you to be putting up with this. Just how attracted to each other are you?”

Kenma thinks of last night, of Kuroo in the dim with the moonlight through the window. Of the way he looks with his bangs out of his face. Of him standing there nearly naked and very vulnerable this morning in the light. “He is,” he says quietly.

Tendou cocks his head at him. “What?”

“Amazing.”

Tendou laughs again. “Jesus. You look way too well-rested.”

Kenma stands and heads for the kitchen. “Have you eaten lunch yet?” He motions toward the stove.

Tendou’s brows go back up. “You want to make me lunch? What _happened_ last night?”

Kenma shakes his head at him, pushing his sleeves up to his elbows. “I’m showing my appreciation for you as my roommate and friend.”

Tendou comes to the other side of the counter and props his elbows on it. He laces his fingers and puts his chin on them, leaning toward Kenma. “Well, sure. I guess you work in a fancy restaurant now, don’t you?”

“Uh-huh.” He smiles a little, sly. “I’ll be making a huge mess. As you might say, I’m going to slaughter this kitchen, and you’ll sit right there the whole time and play your Tchaikovsky and not say one thing about it.”

Tendou’s eyes widen in fear. “Wait, come on, we can work this out.”

Kenma points at Tendou’s bed and says in the voice he uses to call orders to the kitchen, “Plant it.”

* * *

**HC: When Tendou goes to the mansion to visit, he and Ushiwaka spend most of their time together on the property. While Waka works in the office, Tendou spends a lot of time playing with the goats out in their pen. He has a good relationship with the employees at the farm, who enjoy chatting with him when he’s around, as well as with Waka’s parents. Waka’s father approves of him, and his stepmother finds him a delight in the kitchen, both for his cooking ability and his affinity for cleaning. During Waka’s free time, he and Tendou like to bake, go for walks, and sit out by the pond, and when Waka isn’t too tired, they get on the chat with Kenma, Lev, and Yaku.**

**When Waka comes to Tokyo for vacation, they spend most of their time alone together in the condo Waka rents for his visits. Still, Waka’s work never stops—he’s on the phone and his email very often—so when Tendou isn’t at the university, he leaves Waka be while he grades assignments and plans lectures. Waka buys fresh groceries every day while Tendou is gone and cooks every meal for them. Free time is spent playing video games and watching movies. Waka doesn’t like to admit that he gets stressed easily, ever the stoic man and stalwart partner, but Tendou can’t be fooled. Over the course of a week’s visit, he might give Waka three or four massages: real ones, with Waka bare and face-down on the bed and Tendou with Waka’s favorite mixture of all-natural oils on his hands—Waka’s favorite part of him. The visual is enough for Tendou, but Waka repays him in full every time.**

**They have legitimately fought only once in their relationship, three years ago in Waka’s bedroom at the mansion, over Tendou’s refusal to ever introduce Waka to his estranged family. Waka insisted how important it was to him that he knew where Tendou came from, that his family values are deep, but Tendou insisted equally in return that what Waka sees today is by his own personal efforts over time and has nothing to do with a family he has no interest in maintaining a relationship with. The fight ended in mutual understanding. Tendou didn’t cry until the middle of that night, and when he did, Waka drew him close and apologized earnestly. He surprised Tendou the next day by driving him out to a colleague’s farm and offering the chance for Tendou to name the four newest members of his family: one-month-old miniature fainting goats Rubi, Tech, France, and Tin.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Easing our way back in...  
> Coming back here to s e v e n t e e n user subs.......that is insane to me. Thank you so so much to those of you who have subscribed to me as a writer. I notice when you leave kudos on multiple of my works, and it really blows my mind and makes my day. I appreciate it so much. And once again, thank you to everyone here who leaves comments, kudos, or is just here to follow the story.  
> I hope everyone had very happy holidays and a great new year! <3


	22. n. any agent that provokes a reaction to proceed at a usually faster rate or under different conditions than otherwise possible

Kuroo arrives one minute before three p.m. for Friday’s prep. When he comes in through the back door, he catches Kenma’s gaze and offers what could be half of a smile.

Next to Kenma as they’re shining silver, Ennoshita whistles quietly and says, “Didn’t know it did that.”

Kenma sighs. “You know, in a lot of ways, you’re really similar to my roommate.” He twists a knife in his fingertips, making sure it glints from every angle.

“I think it’s nice,” Hinata says. “I’ve never really seen him smile much before.”

Right—Hinata was hired post-star, post-breakup. He had to push through all of Kuroo’s nonsense. Is it changing now?

“See?” Ennoshita says. He waves his cloth. “You’re making it easier for everyone.”

Kenma considers doing what Tendou did, saluting and saying, _Aye aye, captain_. But he would just be mocking himself. “Hm.”

Ennoshita looks sideways at him. “I suppose your day off was fulfilling.”

Kenma doesn’t look back.

Akaashi’s office door opens and he stands in the threshold. “Terushima.”

Kenma glances over to Yuuji as he looks up from his prep.

“Yeah?” Yuuji calls back.

Akaashi waves him over. “A few minutes.”

Yuuji puts down his work, rinses his hands, wipes them on his apron as he starts walking. Kenma gives him a small tilt of the head as he passes by, and Yuuji gives him a tiny shrug in return. He disappears into the office with their manager.

“Either way.” Noya’s voice comes from over Kenma’s shoulder. He leans into Kenma’s periphery between him and Hinata, placing a gloved hand on Hinata’s head. “If he’s done being such a pain, it almost feels anticlimactic.”

“Don’t complain,” Ennoshita chuckles. “What would you rather?”

“Give me some fire,” Noya says. “Some zest. Some of this.” He displays Hinata’s hair between his hands. “I want this color.”

Hinata glances up at him with big eyes.

“Sommeliers are artsy types,” Ennoshita says to Kenma. “And thrill-seeking, evidently.”

“Have a little mercy,” Kenma mutters.

“Besides,” Hinata says up at Noya. “Kenma-san is working harder than any of the rest of us.”

Kenma looks over at him.

Noya just ruffles Hinata’s hair. “Get those spoons as bright as your eyes, all right?” He walks back to his counter, waving a hand over his shoulder.

“Kageyama says that when he listens to us, he has trouble following,” Hinata says.

Ennoshita snorts. “That’s just because you’re smarter than him.”

Kenma looks again at Akaashi’s closed door, then turns his gaze to the kitchen where the rest of the chefs continue to prep. Kuroo is facing away, pulling on his jacket, tugging it taut over his shoulders and back before buttoning up the front. He pauses, brings a hand to the back of his neck where Kenma is looking, then starts to turn his face to the side, as if he’ll turn fully to look at Kenma there. But his bangs hide the side of his face from Kenma’s view, and Kuroo doesn’t turn around. He moves through the kitchen into the back hall.

“Again, that’s two crab, one sunchoke, one orzo.”

The chefs call back a resounding _Yes_ , and Kenma files away the order with the names for the table he’ll bring the dishes to in approximately fifteen minutes. He tugs his gloves on his wrists as Tsukishima calls for service and Ennoshita sweeps a platter up into his palm.

“Looks like your two is coming in,” Ennoshita says, nodding toward the front doors.

Akaashi is bringing in his next table, a Mr. Nishiki Motozane and Ms. Hanada Juri, and taking them to their seats. Kenma catches his eye and starts heading over, giving Ennoshita a nod of thanks before they part ways in the house.

“And this is Kozume Kenma who will be your server for the night,” Akaashi says as he reaches the table.

Kenma bows. “Welcome.”

“I hope you enjoy your experience with us tonight. Please do not hesitate to ask any of our serving staff for anything you might need,” Akaashi says, then bows and leaves it to Kenma.

“Is there anything I can get you started with as you look over the menu?” Kenma asks them. “We have chilled flat and sparkling water, and if you are interested in a wine for the evening, we have a master sommelier available to help you make your choices.”

Hanada is lifting her menu to look at it, but Nishiki looks up at Kenma. “We’ll have flat water for now, thank you. What do you suggest from the menu?”

Hanada looks up at him, too.

It isn’t the first time he’s been asked for suggestions. He doesn’t have preferences for the food here; he’s only had small tastes of some elements of the dishes during prep from the chefs. He imagines that any dish this highly priced from a restaurant with three Michelin Stars must taste as good as any other. If the chefs’ skill and Kuroo’s dish from a week ago have anything to say about it, everything here is fantastic.

So, like usual, he tailors his response to what the patrons look like they would want.

“For your appetizer, I would suggest the sunchoke—the most technical dish from our _entremetier_. It is light but still abundant in clean, earthy flavor. Our sunchoke roots come from the Netherlands.”

As he talks, Nishiki looks to Hanada to wait for her to nod. Kenma assumes they’ll be having the same orders, then.

“To follow this dish, I would suggest a richer entrée in our foie gras. We source from a humane farm in southern France. Our _rotisseur_ produces a brilliant sear, and our _saucier_ brightens the dish with his chardonnay grapefruit reduction.”

“That sounds lovely,” Hanada says.

Kenma bows his head a little. “Perfect. And finally, my personal favorite and the most intricate dessert from our _pâtissier_ is his black plum Tokaji cake, not too heavy, but not too light as to leave you unsatisfied.”

“That should all do very well for the both of us,” Nishiki says. Hanada places her menu back down.

Kenma nods again. “Absolutely. I will bring your order back to the kitchen immediately, and I will return with your water in just a moment. Is there anything else I can get for you before I do so?”

“No, thank you.”

Easy table then. Smaller parties usually are. “Of course. Please give me a moment for your water.” He bows a final time and turns back toward the kitchen.

He relays the order, doubles on everything, and he makes his way around the pass to go to the back hall for cold storage.

“Who’s the guy at your table?” Bokuto asks him as he’s walking through.

“Nishiki,” Kenma says. “From Sumitomo, I believe.”

“We were saying how we thought we’d seen him somewhere before,” Yuuji says over his shoulder, swirling a saucepan.

Bokuto shrugs. “But the name doesn’t ring a bell. Just one of those faces.”

Kenma looks between them, then glances up to where Tsukishima and Kuroo are behind the pass. Overhearing, Tsukishima glances out into the house with a glint of lenses, but Kuroo keeps his eyes on the plate he’s expediting for one of Hinata’s patrons.

Kenma shrugs back. “He just asked for suggestions from the menu.”

As he continues on to the hall, Tsukishima looks over at him, and Kenma doesn’t notice.

…

On Sunday, Kuroo asks him to come home with him again, but Kenma shakes his head. When Kuroo’s shoulders fall, Kenma tells him that he wants more time to talk, to just wait until their next day off.

Out of sight of the others, Kuroo kisses him quickly in the hall that night, and on Monday, too. Part of Kenma feels disturbed by the secrecy of it when they’re both aware that even though nobody can see them, everybody knows. But the rest of him is relieved.

Immediately after finishing his duties following service, Tsukishima is the first one to leave every night.

…

At 2:23 a.m. after Wednesday night’s service, Kenma is just starting to wonder if Kuroo is going to ask him again tonight after all when Akaashi calls them together.

Bokuto whistles and spins a finger. “Bring it to the pass.”

As Kenma is walking up from the front of the house where he was gathering tablecloths, he sees Bokuto give Akaashi an unsure glance as he approaches from his office with one piece of paper in his hand. Akaashi meets Bokuto’s gaze, but Kenma can’t tell what he’s saying with it. As always, he’s just expressionless enough to be unreadable.

They form their usual huddle as if this was their pre-service debriefing. Kenma stands next to the pass with Hinata on his left, and Yuuji to his right and Kuroo across from him over the wall. When he glances at Kuroo, Kuroo is already looking at Akaashi.

“Was there a problem with service?” Kuroo asks, obstinance creeping into his tone. He crosses his arms.

Akaashi shakes his head. “This isn’t about tonight. I’ve received some information about one of our customers from last Friday.”

Kuroo narrows his eyes. Kageyama shifts on his feet, and Iwaizumi straightens his shoulders. Next to Akaashi, Noya leans to look at the paper in Akaashi’s hands. Kenma can see Akaashi’s thumb turn white at the nail, gripping the page tightly, a small indication of something coming.

Akaashi takes a breath, sighs it gently out. “We have reason to believe that we served Naoi Manabu, and that he is one of the newest inspectors for the Michelin Guide.”

The tension immediately rises. Kenma looks to Kuroo again, and there’s a flash in his visible eye, a sharpening of his jaw as he clenches it. His fingertips dig into his arms.

Bokuto says, “How can we know that?” He glances sideways toward Kuroo before looking back at Akaashi.

Akaashi just shakes his head. “We can’t be sure.”

“Who served him?” Ennoshita asks. Hinata draws in a quick breath.

“We believe it was Kenma’s table of two, around ten PM,” Akaashi tells them.

Eyes land on Kenma. When he first came here nearly four weeks ago, the attention would have gone straight to his nerves, straight to his pulse. But now, a month later—a month into everything Tiger’s Eye has done to him—he feels steady, zoned into it in the same way he is during a game’s hardest point, the _coup de grâce._

What would it mean if they had an inspector here that night? Kuroo didn’t do anything in particular. It was a completely normal service.

All at once, he starts to wonder if that will end up being the problem in itself.

He thinks back to that night. “I didn’t serve anybody named Naoi.”

“Michelin inspectors,” Iwaizumi says, closing his eyes and pushing at his hair, “come anonymously.”

“We believe Nishiki Motozane was his pseudonym.” Akaashi says. “Ms. Hanada with him was the one who called to make the reservation.”

“If inspectors think a restaurant has caught even the slightest wind of them coming,” Yuuji says, and Kenma looks up at him. He snaps his fingers. “They cancel. They do everything they can to be unsuspecting. It’s all about neutrality.”

“To us,” Noya says, “they’re meant to be just another customer.”

Kenma puts his hands behind his back and clasps them together. He looks forward again and says, “I see.”

“Just what exactly is it…” Kuroo says low.

They turn to him. His arms are clutched across his body, his shoulders tight, his stance rigid. With the way his chin is tilted down in anger, his bangs sway forward from his face and reveal a partial, dark image of his right eye. Kenma remembers saying, _You look softer this way_ , and realizes that maybe it’s circumstantial. Right now, Kuroo looks sharper than ever.

He lifts his chin back up, higher than level, his neck taut with his tendons showing through, and says, “That makes you think he was from Michelin?”

Akaashi looks calmly at him. “We have some of his background. He has worked in the front and back of multiple high-end restaurants in Tokyo and Seoul. He spent three years in Aman Tokyo Hotel and another two in the Four Seasons at Marunouchi. He worked in Ukai Keishin’s restaurant six years ago.”

Tsukishima blinks behind his lenses, and his eyes lower to the floor.

Akaashi scans his paper. “He’s worked in the culinary business for fourteen years in various areas until, at some point just over a year ago, he disappeared. It stands to reason that this time was spent in extensive training with senior Guide inspectors before becoming an inspector for this cycle himself.”

Bokuto pushes his hair back and shakes his head. “I knew we recognized him. He’s been in so many areas, we couldn’t place it from anything in particular.”

“And the fake name threw us off,” Yuuji agrees.

Akaashi just nods and says, “It has also been announced that the next edition of the Michelin Guide will be in publication within the next six to eight weeks.”

Hinata says in a small voice, “Well, we aren’t supposed to know, right?” He looks up at them. “And we did everything the same way we would have otherwise.”

Ennoshita smiles down at him. “Right. It’s just like any other year—”

“We could get demoted.”

Kuroo’s voice cuts through them.

Akaashi lowers his hands. The paper flutters gently to his side.

Kuroo’s fingers press white circles into the skin of his upper arms. “We could lose the star.”

Something about it pricks against Kenma’s skin, like a pin sliding into the cavity of his chest.

“Who didn’t catch it?” Kuroo demands. He looks up at Akaashi. “That girl in Kyoto you hired? Fire her tonight.”

“Yachi-san will not get fired for something entirely out of her control,” Akaashi says flatly. “It’s a wonder she even recognized it now. She compiled this information for us after the fact; nobody asked her to, and it wasn’t necessary. I’m not telling you for a reaction, I’m only telling everyone because we happen to know.”

“If she’d found out prior to that night, he wouldn’t have come,” Tsukishima says.

Kuroo lands a look on him. “Had we known beforehand—”

“Then you would have given him a stellar service?” Kenma interrupts.

They all pause and look at him again. Kuroo’s gaze lands on him with a fire in his irises, the yellow lights catching there as they always do. “We could lose the star,” he says again, pronouncing each word as if it means something different to Kenma who understands things about him that most of the others don’t.

But it doesn’t. Just because Daichi wanted Kuroo to get that third star doesn’t mean it makes any difference. The fact that Daichi rooted for him is irrelevant. The star is the star, and Kuroo would have been able to earn it regardless of Daichi’s belief in him. Why can’t he understand that?

“Why?” Kenma says evenly. “Because you’re no longer confident in your or your brigade’s abilities to serve Michelin quality cuisine?”

Nobody says anything. Kageyama looks down.

“Would you have given him special treatment,” Kenma says, “put in extra effort, for knowing who he was?” He stands up straighter. “He is anyone else. We serve all customers the same food in the same way, no matter who they are. And from my understanding, _nobody_ gets to have known beforehand.”

“He’s right,” Ennoshita says, looking into Kuroo’s face, but Kuroo doesn’t look back at him. He stares at Kenma, unblinking, his eyes narrowing.

_In front of them all_ , his gaze says.

And Kenma says back, _You lied to me._

So he won’t be going home with Kuroo after all.

“Both of you, into my office,” Akaashi says.

Kuroo stands there stubbornly, but so does Kenma.

“Go. Now.”

Ultimately, it’s Kuroo who turns away first.

As Kenma is following him to the office, he hears behind him Hinata saying, “Will we really get demoted?”

Ennoshita says, making no attempt to keep his voice down, “That depends on how right Kenma is.”

“Don’t worry about it, Shouyou,” Noya says. “At the end of the day, the Guide is just a bunch of paper and ink.”

But Bokuto sighs, “Not to him.”

Kenma watches Kuroo’s shoulders flinch up as they enter the office. He closes the door behind them.

Kuroo turns to look at him. “That was uncalled for.”

“You weren’t telling me the truth.”

Kuroo’s visible eyebrow goes down. “What are you talking about?”

“You said you were going to work on it,” Kenma says, looking up into his face. “For yourself and for the restaurant. You’re hung up on this third star because of him. But the star _isn’t_ him—it’s you. And as much as you so apparently don’t want them to be, those two things are mutually exclusive.”

Is he saying too much? Has he taken the pin out of his own chest and thrust it into Kuroo’s instead?

It’s too late to be careful. It’s been too long.

Kuroo recoils at his words. “Stop. I don’t mean it like that.”

“We’ve slept together, Tetsurou.”

“What do you want me to do?” Kuroo throws his arms out. “I can’t be upset about this possibility? It’s my job. It’s my _life_.”

Kenma takes a step closer. “I want you to just believe in yourself. He’s not the only one who ever did. Everybody else does except for you.”

For a moment, Kuroo stands there with his lips parted, staring down at him. But then the obstinance creeps back onto his features, his perverse uncooperative nature that stems from a deep-seated lack of self-esteem, which he for some reason believes was taken away from him when Daichi stepped out of their house for the final time.

“You are ignorant,” Kuroo says to him.

It chills Kenma’s blood. He stands in front of Kuroo with his arms by his sides, unmoving.

“You don’t know anything about this industry, Kenma. You have no idea how this machine runs.” Kuroo averts his face, hiding behind his bangs. “I’m the one who’s been here for years. For nearly half of my life. It takes things from you.”

And Kenma says gently back, “You’re taking things from me.”

Kuroo’s hands curl into fists. He looks downward. “Leave me alone.”

The ice in Kenma’s veins spreads out to his fingertips. “That’s not going to work.”

“You don’t want me to lie to you; I don’t want to say anything else that will make you hate me even more. Leave me alone.”

_I don’t hate you, Tetsu_.

It doesn’t come out.

All of the emotions in his body and mind settle into nothing.

Vacantly, he takes a breath, turns around, and does as Kuroo said.

He stands on his toes to slide a glass jar of whole nutmeg back onto a shelf in the pantry. When he lowers back down to his heels, there’s a knock against the threshold.

He turns to see Yuuji, leaning with his hand against the wall, blocking the doorway. He stays there without taking any steps closer, and Kenma realizes that he’s making sure nobody else walks in. For his sake.

“Hey. Everything okay?” Yuuji says.

If it was Kuroo, would he feel trapped again?

Kenma finds that he can’t hold Yuuji’s warmhearted gaze. He’s embarrassed by this whole thing. Embarrassed by himself. “You probably think I’m making such a mistake.”

“You’re right about him. What you said earlier,” Yuuji says. “And it’s not my place to judge you.”

Kenma laughs once. “Maybe you are anyway.”

Yuuji shakes his head sincerely, and somehow, Kenma believes him.

“I don’t know how you do it,” Kenma says. “How you deal with this and stay so positive.”

Yuuji does his gentle, easy smile. “Well, it’s different for you, at least partly.”

Kenma looks off to the side. At least that much is true, given his and Kuroo’s relationship.

“But I think it’s because…” Yuuji shrugs. “I guess I’m always reminding myself of everything else.”

Kenma looks back at him, faintly silhouetted by the light in the hallway from the kitchen. “What do you mean? What’s everything else?”

Yuuji shrugs again. “Anything. Kuroo is our boss, and he’s a great chef, but he’s just Kuroo. The entire rest of everything exists outside of this restaurant, too. Even within it, there’s still a lot more than just him. There’s the guys in the kitchen, the guys in the house.” He smiles. “You’re here. It’s not just him, you know? I consciously tell myself, okay, this sucks again today, but not all of it. My favorite people in the world are here, and that matters more than whatever tantrum he’s decided to throw this time.”

_The entire rest of everything_.

It’s Tendou and Yaku and Lev, Yuuji and Hinata and Ennoshita and Noya and Asahi and Bokuto and Kageyama and Iwaizumi and Akaashi. It’s the sound of Ina’s paws on tatami, and Lev’s purple T-shirts and scrubs, and Yaku’s plants glittering with droplets on the windowsill, and the sounds his favorite games make when he levels up, and Tendou’s Rossini and Shostakovich and his smile when he’s talking to Wakatoshi over the phone, and mystery-flavored lollipops and train rides to Yokohama and fresh pink roses for beautiful desserts and yellow amulets for happiness and honey melting over his tongue and Shakespeare during service and a jacket held for a tired chef by an equally tired manager.

Kuroo isn’t everything. Kenma needs to stop feeling like he is.

“What if this makes you lose a star?” he asks.

Yuuji laughs for a second. “Yeah, I don’t really care about stars.” Kenma blinks at him, and Yuuji grins. “Remember how I went to culinary school for the hell of it?”

Of course—Yuuji isn’t one to put so much weight on things or himself. He’s lighthearted, drama-free, and happy, and he doesn’t cook for recognition.

“I’m a chef because I love it,” Yuuji says. “Not because I need anything from it.” He crosses his arms and leans on his shoulder against the doorway. “I just like my job. I like the work that I do here and the people I’m with. It’s fulfilling enough, and I’m happy. In the end, that’s all that matters.”

Kenma doesn’t know what to say. Yuuji’s sentiment is easy to understand—Kenma did stay after that first night, after all, because he enjoys working here—and it’s something he wishes he could feel totally for himself, but it isn’t as easy for him as it must be for Yuuji. Tendou is carefree in a certain way, and Lev is one of the happiest people he knows, but he’s never met someone so relaxed, easygoing, and trusting of the world as Yuuji is.

Tsukishima calls out, “Kitchen’s good for the night,” and everyone gives him a reply.

Yuuji shrugs. “Sometimes I think I’d have just as much fun working in, like, an American-style breakfast diner short ordering pancakes and hash browns. As long as I’ve got my hands moving and something that’ll taste good at the end, I’m having a good time.” He grins again. “It’d be a pretty nice break from this place though, huh?”

Kenma just looks at him. “You’re a really admirable person, Yuuji.”

The grin softens out. “That means a lot to me.”

“You have such a good attitude.” Kenma shakes his head. “I wish I could be like that.”

But Yuuji just shrugs one more time. He says, his piercing catching light, “I think you’re cool as you are.”

Feeling wells up in Kenma’s chest. Would it be wrong to hug him?

Nothing about anything in this place is quite right. If it’s wrong, screw it.

Yuuji sees it coming and takes a step into the pantry so they’re not visible from the hall—not out of embarrassment or shame, but simply for privacy. He pulls Kenma close in the same way he did before. His arms hold steady, neutrally, on Kenma’s back.

Kenma closes his eyes. “Thank you.”

“Don’t let his shit get in the way of you, all right?”

Kenma laughs, and they pull away from each other. Kenma looks up at him in the dim.

Yuuji tilts his head, indicating the kitchen. “It might be easier to compartmentalize him into _him._ ”

For some reason, that makes it click in Kenma’s head. For all of this time, he’s been looking at Kuroo in many different ways: as a three-star name in the Japanese culinary industry, as the owner of this restaurant, as his executive chef, and now as the ex-fiancé of somebody else. But if what he and Kuroo have going on is going to even begin to work, and if he wants his time here in Tiger’s Eye to be as good as it is for Yuuji, then he needs to be looking at Kuroo as just Kuroo. Just a man, in the world like everybody else, who happened to land in the same place at the same time as Kenma did by pure coincidence. Kuroo must be just himself regardless of the job or the restaurant, because even without considering him at all, Kenma still loves being here with everyone else, too.

Tendou’s voice in his head: _That’s always been your thing. You treat everyone as you’d treat anyone. You’re the most equal person I know. But we’re still human._

At his very human core, in his soul, Kuroo is no different from anyone else.

But…at the same time, Kenma values Kuroo in a different way than he does others. Not necessarily more or less, but differently. He isn’t his best friend, or his closest coworker. Whatever their relationship is, it desires a different value than relationships different in kind. Kuroo means something to him. But Kuroo won’t give that value back. Last Wednesday night he said he would begin to try, but if their conversation earlier is any indication…

“It’ll be better tomorrow,” Yuuji says, watching everything pass over Kenma’s features.

It breaks Kenma out of his running thoughts and he focuses back in on Yuuji’s face. It calms him, and he takes a breath, exhales it out. His first thought is, _Will it?_ But he doesn’t want to think about it anymore. He’s been going in circles for a month now.

“Is he still here?” he asks instead, embarrassingly quiet.

Yuuji nods.

“I don’t want to see him for the rest of the night,” Kenma says. The words are humiliating as they come out, but at least they’re honest. Yuuji lifts an eyebrow, and Kenma puts up surrendering hands. “Please spare the judgement.”

“You’re right, you’re right.” Yuuji smiles. “And I feel you. Tell you what—I’ll be your bodyguard and we’ll sneak out. I could take you home if you’re cool with that and if you want to keep your mind off of it. I can’t imagine a long walk home alone in the dark would do well for anyone’s thoughts.”

Yuuji understands him too well. “Thank you. Really.”

“Of course. I know a possible bad review is like,” he waves a hand, “probably as devastating to you as it is to me.”

Kenma laughs. “Do you think Akaashi will be mad if we leave early?”

“On a Wednesday night with Chef being like that? We can dip out literally through the loading dock and Akaashi won’t care. He likes you too much as his greatest asset, and I’m a decent enough chef to keep around.” He hooks a thumb over his shoulder. “And the fact that Chikara hasn’t come in here to get you for not working says plenty. Remember, we functioned here enough without you before. You’re here because you make us better.”

_Then let’s leave right now. Take me home._ “The kitchen is done?” Kenma asks.

Yuuji nods again.

“Then…” He glances past Yuuji. “We race-walk to get our stuff and leave? On three?”

Yuuji does one more grin. “One. Two.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you probably noticed, there is no headcanon for this chapter. I have no reason for this other than that I’ve racked my brain since beginning the HC agenda and have never come up with one for this chapter alone. So in place of that, if you’d like, please ask me anything you’d like to know about any characters *who have been on camera* so far! Questions about their personal lives, backstory, hobbies, “what-if’s”, any random scenario really. I’ll answer as much as I can without spoiling any plot, or that isn’t already in a future HC! And if you have no questions, that’s fine too. I just…couldn’t think of a HC for this one :’)
> 
> Also, some Michelin procedures aren’t followed exactly in this story...I've taken a bit of poetic license. Please pretend with me. But also know that demotion is very much a real-life possibility.


	23. violin sonata no. 5 in E flat minor

Yuuji waves goodbye to him as he pulls away from the apartment. Kenma waves back, clutching his keys in his hand. When the red of Yuuji’s taillights disappear onto another street, he turns to go up the stairs to their room.

Insects chirr quietly in the trees around his building, but a cold breeze makes his hair flicker across his cheek, tingling against his skin. Winter is descending.

He climbs the last step, makes it to their door, and goes inside. Tendou is asleep, hidden under his covers in the dark, unmoving and so quiet that Kenma can’t even hear him breathe. When Kenma closes the door behind him and lets go of the knob, it all finally hits him.

His heart makes one heavy pulse, and for a moment he feels nauseated, a thickness at the back of his throat he can’t swallow, a heat in his neck and an ache in his upper back. He considers sitting down on the floor and wrapping his arms around his knees, but that would be too dramatic.

Pause. Check inventory.

The conversation he and Kuroo just had— _didn’t_ have. Another useless argument in Akaashi’s office. The way Kuroo hides when he kisses him. Tsukishima’s expression when he leaves every night. The moonlight on Kuroo’s whole face in the dim of his bedroom. Kuroo’s admittance that he must change but the lack of evidence henceforth. The cool feeling of the glass bottle in his hand the first time Kuroo tried to kiss him. The things Yaku has said. Recalling long-forgotten Russian with a little insistence from Kuroo over the pass. A reflexive catch of a bottle of champagne falling from a table. A hand on his backside, a finger twirling in his hair. Seeing Kuroo, happy only because he was buzzed, for the very first time. The moment he first pulled up the application on his computer screen, before he had any idea what he was getting himself into.

Suddenly, the weight of the month overwhelms him.

Kuroo promised to tell him the truth, that he would make an effort, just _try_ , but it feels like all he cares about are the memories trapped inside that third star.

_You are ignorant._

How hurtful.

_But you’re wrong,_ he thinks back. _I’m the only one, besides maybe Akaashi or Bokuto, who truly, completely understands you._

He looks at Tendou’s form under his sheets. All this time, whenever Kenma has come home and complained to his roommate about the countless things Kuroo has done, Tendou has never once judged him or made him feel bad about it. When he’s spoken to Lev and Yaku, even with as pragmatic as Yaku is and how well Lev knows Kenma since their first year in high school, they supported him just as much in any decision he made. But now he’s afraid to tell Yaku, afraid of Yaku’s sensibility and what will ultimately be judgement, because Yaku’s opinion matters greatly to him. The last thing he wants is to disappoint him, but not being able to talk to his friend about this is starting to feel worse than if he could.

And Tendou is asleep.

In his inventory, the only items lighting up are helplessness, resignation, and defeat.

And then at the bottom of his screen, a question prompt that hasn’t crossed his mind in what feels like forever reemerges.

Should he stay?

He reopens the door and steps back outside. He sits down on the concrete of the second floor with his back to their wall, underneath the window, and takes his phone out of his pocket. If he’s fast enough, he might be able to catch Lev and Yaku, or just one of them, before their shift starts. But no—they might still be sleeping. It’s Thursday now. Today is their day off.

Then there’s only one other person he can think to call.

He goes into his contacts and taps the name. After two rings an even, airy voice says, “Kenma?”

He looks out at the empty road. “Akaashi-san. Can I talk to you?”

He hears a voice in the background say, _Oh no_. His throat immediately tightens.

There’s a pause, then Akaashi says, “Can I put you on speaker? Kou wants to join.”

Kenma feels his eyes start to sting. He pulls his knees up to his chest and hugs them tight. “Yeah.”

White noise, fabric shifting. Bokuto’s voice: “You doing okay, kid?”

Kenma lowers his head and his hair falls forward to cover his face.

By the time he walks back into their apartment, Tendou is already awake and standing.

He shuts the door behind him, holding his phone loosely in his hand. “I’m sorry I woke you up early.”

Tendou flicks on his lamp—usually he moves around in the dark before he leaves for work. “You know I’m awake all the time anyway. I can sense when you’re crying. It feels all staticky in here when you’re that upset.”

Kenma looks sideways at the floor. “Mm.”

“Were you talking to him?” Tendou asks, pulling up his sheets and tucking them tightly under his mattress like he does every single day. “Take your shoes off.”

Kenma shakes his head. “My manager and one of our chefs.” He toes his shoes off by the heels. Who cares if they get scuffed. One of them tips over onto its side and he doesn’t fix it.

“Do they have your back?”

Kenma nods. “Yeah.” His eyes start to burn again and he tries to hold it back.

Tendou walks over to him. “Come on, you’re an ugly crier. Stop it.” He wraps his arms around Kenma and picks him up again, legs dangling, and takes him to the edge of his bed. He sets Kenma down and sits next to him, leaning back onto his hands as Kenma hunches his shoulders forward. “I know it sucks. You’ve been putting so much into this.”

Kenma rubs his face.

“And that means that whatever decision you make,” Tendou says, “you have every right to, and I’m sure it’ll be the right one for you. Your happiness and your sanity.” He tilts his head. “I’m not just talking about the restaurant.”

Kenma finally turns to face him.

Tendou smiles gently, tilting his head the other way. “I think you need to start thinking more about yourself. This is all getting way into your head and you don’t need that.”

Kenma averts his eyes to the bed. “Is it wrong to try hard?”

“It is if you’re not getting the same in return.”

Kenma swallows.

“What kind of effort is he putting in?” Tendou asks him. “Do the words he says matter when he continues to show something different with his character?”

Kenma didn’t even have to tell him what happened. Is it that obvious that they fought again? Is Tendou that good at reading things? Or is it just Kuroo’s pattern that he’s actually accepting when Kenma for some reason refuses to.

But what he thought before is still true—he knows Kuroo better than Tendou does. _He’s good at his core. He was before. I just have to get him back there._

_I mean…_ he _has to get back there._

It isn’t his job. He’s tired, and Tendou is right—Kuroo _isn’t_ putting in the same effort, because he doesn’t give it the same value. Will he ever? Should Kenma just give up? After all of this work?

Maybe it’s time to cut his losses. Akaashi just gave him the option to.

He pulls his legs up onto the bed and sits crisscross facing Tendou. “I feel like I’m going in circles.” Tendou nods in agreement. “Like every time we argue, we reset back at the beginning.”

Tendou looks at him. His pupils are small in the lamplight. “Then stop playing.”

Kenma swallows again. “It’s hard to…separate it. We argue about the restaurant, so it doesn’t have to do with our relationship.”

“Doesn’t it?” Tendou says. Kenma starts messing with his fingernails in his lap. “You work together, so that’s the start of it. And do the arguments not have something to do with his ex in some way?”

Kenma takes a breath, but closes his mouth. They do. They always do. What’s happening to Tiger’s Eye is because of how Kuroo feels over what happened over a year ago with Daichi.

“Does he even let you argue?” Tendou asks quieter.

Sometimes he does. Sometimes they talk to each other, are honest with each other, about the past and what they should do and what schools they went to. But sometimes…

_Leave me alone._

Kenma just sighs.

Tendou moves from next to him, turning to lean back against the wall at the head of the bed with his legs out, crossed at the ankles, and his hands behind his head. “You know how Waka and I have been talking about moving in together?”

Kenma hums and nods.

“Since this lease is turning over soon if we want, he and I brought it up again a couple of days ago. We ended up arguing.”

Kenma frowns. “But you never fight.”

“I know. And it wasn’t a fight.” He sighs and looks up at the ceiling. “This was the first time we’ve talked about it seriously. The problem came up when we realized, or finally said out loud, that we both want the other to move to us. I want him to come here to be near the university—just buy that little rental condo he keeps for when he comes to visit—but he wants me to come live in the mansion with him. But that was only the surface of the argument, because we could live anywhere together if it wasn’t for our jobs. The real issue arose when we started talking about my work.” He puts one hand out. “I understand that he can’t really come here, with the farm and the business and his family. It’s something really deep-rooted there, and not something he can up and move away from and still maintain. But I don’t want to give up my job either. I love teaching.” His gaze glides back down to Kenma’s. “He says he wants me to just come be with him and that I don’t need to work because he can take care of me.”

Kenma frowns again. “That’s unfair.”

Tendou smiles. “That’s what I said. The thing is—he just wants my happiness. That’s all he means by it. I explained that not working is not an option for me, and he got it. We’re still not sure what to do, but that’s beside the point.” He sighs, and his smile becomes gentle, lazy and calm, as his eyelids rest down halfway. “We don’t fight because he’s such a good guy. He’s level-headed, reasonable, noncombative, and a safe space for me to fall. Even if he’s stoic and blunt sometimes, but I think that’s hot.”

Kenma laughs a little. “You’ve been together forever.”

“Four years, or something like that. He could tell you precisely—he’s into remembering that kind of thing. Knowing dates, having difficult but calm conversations, supporting me fully. _That’s_ the effort he puts in.”

Oh. Kenma understands the point of the story now.

“The point,” Tendou says, looking right at him, “is that Waka listens to me, and that I’m not afraid to say anything to him, or of what he’s going to say to me. I feel at ease with him, all the time, even when we argue and hold nothing back. I want you to have someone who treats you the way he treats me.”

Kenma lets his eyes slip closed.

One thing Tendou said sticks out to him the most: _a safe space for me to fall_. That’s what it should be. That’s what Tendou is to him—that comfort and acceptance he feels when he’s home, or with Lev and Yaku, with Yuuji. Even walking into the house with Hinata and Noya and Ennoshita. He shouldn’t expect or accept anything less than that.

“Look,” Tendou says.

Kenma opens his eyes.

Tendou angles his face toward him, arms still crossed behind his head. “Your peace of mind should never be the price you pay for some dude. A good guy will make sure of that. Waka never, _ever_ gets on my nerves. Our arguments are logistical, or stupid. They’re never because of each other’s character.” He sits up from the wall and stretches his arms over his head. “If that guy wants you, he’ll figure that out. Maybe you stepping back completely would be the splash of cold water he needs.”

Stepping back completely.

_To be honest with you, kid_ , Bokuto said over the phone, _we don’t know what would happen if you walked away._

“I don’t know what to do,” he says.

“It doesn’t have to be a snap decision,” Tendou says. He gets back up from the bed and goes to the kitchen. “You have as much time as you need to decide. Who knows—maybe something will spell it out for you soon.” He finds his kettle and holds it up. “It’s your day off, right? You want some tea before you sleep forever?”

* * *

**HC:**

**“Hey, Akaashi!” Bokuto jogged to him, waving. Other students walked out behind him, headed home in the light snow.**

**“Thank you for meeting me out here, Bokuto-san.” He looked up into Bokuto’s face.**

**“It’s pretty cold. You wanna go inside or something? You want a hat for your ears? I have mine in my bag if—”**

**“No, thank you, Bokuto-san. I just…”**

**Bokuto frowned. “What’s wrong?”**

**“Nothing is wrong. I wanted to say that…” He looked sideways. “I wanted to tell you something.”**

**“What is it, Akaashi?”**

**He took a breath of freezing air. “I wanted to tell you that I like you.”**

**Bokuto blinked at him. “What?”**

**“I’ve always liked you, Bokuto-san. I really like you. You make me happy.”**

**“Akaashi.”**

**“And seeing you every day makes me…” He paused, unable to find the right words. “I’m excited to come to school in the mornings, and I miss you during weekends. I think about you most of the time.” He glanced down. “I’ve wanted to tell you. I don’t think I could have held it in any longer. I don’t know how you feel, or if you’re interested in this kind of relationship, but…I like you, and I was wondering if you want to…be…” His throat was so tight he could hardly speak.**

**“I hope you’re saying you want me to be your boyfriend.”**

**Akaashi looked up into his eyes.**

**Bokuto blushed, rubbing his neck. “Kuroo’s been trying to get me to say something to you since summer. I was so nervous he was wrong about you maybe agreeing that I never worked myself up to it. I thought that—”**

**“Are you saying yes?”**

**Bokuto grinned at him: that same smile, his golden eyes. “Yeah, Akaashi. I like you, too. I wanna be your boyfriend really bad.”**

**He shivered when they hugged.**

**“You sure you don’t want my hat?” Bokuto asked softly, holding him tight.**

**Akaashi closed his eyes. “Yeah. All right.”**

**________**

**_Take My Word: A Brief KageHina Backstory_ **

Their first meeting was Hinata’s first day on the job. Hinata is a focused kid, and his intentions were clear as somebody who wanted to get his foot in the door of the restaurant industry to begin making a name for himself. Landing the job at Tiger’s Eye had thus far been the highlight of his life. As a socially adept person, he quickly made friends with those others who are too—particularly Noya and Ennoshita as fellow house members—and acquaintances with most of the rest, including Iwaizumi, Tsukishima, and his intimidating manager. Only two people were more difficult to get closer with…

Like everyone else, the first thing Kageyama noticed about Hinata was his hair, and the second was his optimism, his positive personality. Kageyama is quiet, shy, and has been told before that he can be a little too earnest, so when he found himself keeping track of an orange tuft moving about the house during service, he told himself to keep his mouth shut and work. He would never say anything…or at the very least, he would wait, because he knew just as well why Hinata was hired as the rest of them.

Kuroo came on quickly, as he does. The worst times were when Hinata was on the other side of the pass and Kuroo blocked the view from Kageyama’s station so he couldn’t see what was happening; when Hinata made his way around toward the back hall with a deep flush on his cheeks and his head down just the slightest, passing behind Kageyama quickly and soundlessly. On a scale of one to ten, Kageyama’s protective instinct has always been no lower than a seven, but for those who came before Hinata, it was never this high.

But services went on. Hinata was stronger than he expected, and a rapid learner. He quickly became a server worthy of three stars, much different from the clumsy kid who broke one of Noya’s wine glasses on the first night. Just under a month later, Kuroo became both bored of Hinata and respectful of him, and Hinata’s place in Tiger’s Eye was cemented.

Kageyama took another week to build up his courage. As the servers generally left half an hour before the chefs do, Kageyama had never walked out with Hinata at the same time, so he made sure to catch Hinata in the back hall privately. He didn’t want to embarrass Hinata in front of the others, or embarrass himself in the case of rejection. In his mind, he felt he shouldn’t have been asking at all, but he had to.

“Um—Hinata.” He paused in the hallway in the dim, hoping his presence wasn’t oppressive the way Kuroo’s could be. He kept his fair distance.

Hinata turned to look at him, a bag of fine grain salt in his arm. “Yeah? I mean—yes?” He shook his head, bowed it a little in apology.

“Oh, don’t worry about that.” One of his hands came up to rub the back of his neck. “Anyway. Look, uh…do you want…” _What’s the right way to ask?_ “Do you have a girlfriend?”

Hinata faced him straight on, blinking big eyes. “No.”

_Say more. Tell me if…_ “Do you want one?” _What am I saying?_

Hinata shifted on his feet. “Um. I don’t think so.” He tilted his head. “I’m sorry if this is wrong, but are you trying to ask me out?”

A blush crept up to Kageyama’s ears. “Oh. Yeah. That’s what I meant.”

Hinata smiled. “You’ve been kinda quiet. You’re not very good with words, are you.”

Kageyama was thankful that the lighting hid the burning all over his face. “Not really.” He cleared his throat. “But I am good at baking. Maybe this Thursday, we could, uh, take a class together?”

Hinata blinked a little as if he was surprised, then laughed. “Yeah, that sounds fun. Though I don’t think you need one.”

As they continued on—a second date, a third—Kageyama only began to like him more. Everyone in the restaurant knew, and he was thankful for their support, however it went. Four Thursdays later, he asked he if could take Hinata home, and he found out that they already lived in the same apartment complex near to the restaurant, just on different floors.

“I guess we never leave at the same time,” he said as they approached Hinata’s door.

“I guess not, huh? What time do you leave in the mornings? Somehow we—”

“Shouyou, I really like you. Can I kiss you?”

_Way to be too earnest again. Scare him away from—_

But Hinata stopped his thoughts by saying, “Yes.”

He did his best. Every moment he had with Hinata when they weren’t at Tiger’s Eye was spent to the fullest he could. He took Hinata to movies, dinners and brunches, through parks and up mountains and into his kitchen where he showed Hinata the kind of work he did back when he was fourteen, trying to be a barista during school and discovering how much he liked to make art with food.

Hinata was a little shy but fully willing when Kageyama held his hand or kissed his cheek. When he touched Hinata’s arms, his waist, his back and a bit further down. The first time he asked for more, Hinata said no, that he wasn’t ready yet—but that he wouldn’t mind staying the night anyway. Kageyama took the deal happily and cuddled Hinata as much as he was comfortable with.

He made Hinata the prettiest latte roses he could, breakfasts with too much powdered sugar, desserts that left even sweeter aftertastes when he could have them a second time on Hinata’s tongue. He told poorly-executed off-timed jokes, and changed the way he put the toilet paper on the holder, and let Natsu draw a portrait of him and swore it was the best thing he’s ever seen before asking if he could make one of her and her brother out of fondant and buttercream. He complained about work, about how sore his hands get and how he’ll definitely have arthritis when he’s older, about how much he hated watching Kuroo do those things to Hinata and how much pressure had been pushing down on him recently since Kuroo changed. He felt Hinata’s arms tight around his back when he accidentally shouted then cried from being tired enough that he could hardly hold his eyes open any longer. Many times, he sat in the quiet while Hinata sat near him on his laptop, researching his career and his future, and he enjoyed their silent company and admired Hinata’s passion, hoping that things will turn out exactly how Hinata dreams and dreading the day when he will move on from Tiger’s Eye to somewhere else.

Slowly, Hinata let him do more, testing the waters for himself and saying that he liked Kageyama’s hands a lot. “They’re gentle,” he sighed, shivering from fingertips drawn over his hips and stomach. “So delicate…” An exhausted Wednesday night was made even more so when Hinata finally said yes.

Six months after they met, as Kageyama was carefully carrying two lattes into his bedroom, eyes trained on the surfaces to make sure they didn’t ripple too much, Hinata said, “Tobio?”

“Uh?” He handed one of the cups over to Hinata, crisscross on his bed.

Hinata looked down at an intricate pear tree, five little fruits amongst individual leaves. “This is amazing. The most detailed one so far.” When Kageyama sat next to him, he took a sip of his own coffee before Hinata could peek in. Hinata thumped his shoulder. “I wanted to see.”

Kageyama startled. “I didn’t make anything in mine. It took me fifteen minutes just for that one.” Hinata just looked at him, his eyes an orange shade of brown that’s beautiful to Kageyama in any light. He placed his hand on Hinata’s leg. “Were you going to ask me something?”

Hinata looked down at the hand on his thigh. “What are your love languages?”

“My what?”

Hinata sighed. “Your love languages, Tobio. Like, quality time and…” His gaze drifted into his latte again. “I can’t drink this.”

Kageyama frowned. “I put a lot of effort into that thing.”

“I know. I think your main language is acts of service and I think I love you for it.”

The phrase buried itself in Kageyama’s heart. He always thought he’d be the first to say it, but he didn’t know when the right time was. Hinata always was quicker than him, smarter than him. “I don’t know what love languages are, but I know I love you, too.”

Hinata put his cup down on the nightstand, leaned over to kiss his cheek. “Can I ask you something else?”

_After that, anything_. He nodded.

“Don’t you think it might be easier if we didn’t have two apartments in the same building?”

There were too many ripples, too obvious, on the surface of Kageyama’s latte. He looked around for somewhere to put it, so Hinata took it from him to place next to his. “Thanks. Do you…mean living together?”

Hinata shrugged a little. “Yeah. We would only have to pay for one then, right?”

_Say it. Tell him what you think. Say the right words for once._

“If it’s too soon,” Hinata said calmly, “I understand. Just, you know, logistically, I thought maybe. My lease ends not long from now.”

_Open your mouth. Speak!_

“I think we try really hard.” Hinata’s eyes were averting themselves, looking away and down, small splotches of red painting his cheeks. “To understand each other. I know we work together, but…I think we can handle it. And I want to. I like you.”

That much he can say in return. “I like you too, Shou. And…love.”

Hinata looked into his eyes again. “Do you want to just think about it?”

All of the tension in Kageyama’s shoulders released itself at once. After only six months of knowing him, Hinata understood him very well. He isn’t good at decisions unless it’s in the kitchen; he has his desires but is still inexperienced. He’s only twenty-two, after all.

“Yeah,” he said. “We can think about it.” He reached for Hinata’s hand.

Hinata laced their fingers together and nodded. “Okay. Sorry if I freaked you out.”

“It was just sudden. I’ll think about it, I promise.” He squeezed firmly. “Take my word.”

Hinata took it, seriously and entirely.

And Kageyama took three days to decide.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All in all, KageHina's backstory, their getting together, was…very natural. For as young as they are, the two of them did extremely well, handle themselves maturely as a couple and as individuals, and still continue to do so.  
> A short chapter, but coincidentally two little backstory pieces for the headcanons. I hope you all enjoyed!


	24. combined momentum maximizes your chance for a knockout. the key step to delivering a final blow is not strength, but timing.

The sound of his phone ringing wakes him up. He pushes up to his elbow to see Lev and Ina’s faces on his screen, grinning and yawning respectively. He sits up with his legs crossed under the covers and answers the call.

“Lev?”

“I’m making lunch for Morisuke while he’s in the shower,” Lev says in a relatively quiet voice for him. “It’s a surprise. Do you know if he likes chocolate milk?”

“We’ve known him for the same amount of time, Lev,” Kenma says. Lev’s attempt at a secretive voice and the fact that he wants to keep it a surprise when the two of them cook for each other all the time makes a smile pull onto Kenma’s lips.

His eyes feel itchy from last night’s call with Akaashi and Bokuto, but Tendou knocked him out again with extra-strength chamomile, and he slept soundly, dreamlessly. He looks at his screen to see that it’s almost three p.m. If it were a work day, he would be switching on lights or shining silver by now.

Lev hums. “I know, but I can’t remember. Should I just play it safe and give him some water and an ibuprofen?”

“Is this the reason you called?”

“I had a dream that you needed to call me for something important,” Lev says, “so I felt like I should call you.”

It wriggles its way into Kenma’s heart. Even from Yokohama, Lev is still attuned to him in that patient care way that suits him so well.

Sleeping didn’t fix last night’s problems, but it at least took the emotions away. He doesn’t have to deal with them right now. It’s Thursday.

“Well, I’m doing okay,” he says, wondering if he’s lying.

“Are you sure? I think studying for radiology school has gotten me sensitive to energy. Is everything good at the restaurant?”

Kenma hears Yaku’s voice approaching Lev’s phone from a distance. “Are you making me food?”

“Yeah!” Lev says. “Kenma, I’m gonna put you on speaker. Suke’s gonna join.”

The sound of something cooking in a pan becomes clear as Lev opens the call. “Morning,” Yaku says.

“Do you want chocolate milk or water?” Kenma asks him.

There’s a pause on the other end—Kenma imagines Lev blushing and looking down at Yaku—before Lev squeaks, probably from one of the little pinches to his side that Yaku is fond of doing when he can’t reach Lev’s head to whack it. “I’ll make _you_ chocolate milk and get myself an ibuprofen,” Yaku says. “How’s the guy?” he calls to Kenma. “Haven’t heard from you in a bit.”

Kenma looks down at his sheets. A sudden guilt comes over him for not keeping his best friends in the loop on everything that’s been happening. Should he mention anything? He still won’t talk about the ex-fiancé situation because Yaku really would have a fit over it, but can he mention anything else? Like Tendou said yesterday—is it not all connected?

He says instead, “I’m enjoying work.”

Yaku snorts. “That’s an answer.” Kenma hears the sound of pills shaking in a bottle.

“Does your back hurt?” Lev asks, concerned.

“You elbowed me twice last night,” Yaku sighs. “You were restless at like three AM.”

_He was dreaming_ , Kenma thinks.

Lev makes an apologetic noise. “Sorry. I’ll give you a massage.”

“Deal.” He sighs again. Kenma can hear the exasperation in it already, Yaku’s baseline state. “You know what? I’m gonna look him up again.”

“Who?” Kenma says.

“Your exec, who do you think?” In a quieter voice that doesn’t escape Kenma’s range: “That smells really good. Thank you.” And the sound of a kiss.

Even with Yaku’s type-A, neurotic personality and Lev’s constant excitement over the smallest of things, the two of them have always had an easy, relaxed, mutual relationship. That’s what it should be.

And sure, why not look Kuroo up. Yaku can look at Kuroo’s pictures, his old articles in newspapers and online. What difference will it make? “Okay.”

“You never told us about that date either,” Yaku says. “With that tongue guy.”

“His name is Yuuji,” Kenma says, rubbing a hand over his cheek. “And…I guess I—”

“What’s this?”

All three of them pause. Kenma can hear the sizzling of the pan and what sounds like the soft tapping of Yaku’s finger on his phone screen.

“What’s what?” Kenma asks.

They don’t answer him right away.

His phone chimes against his ear. He pulls it away and sees a message from _Just Yuuji_.

_14:47_

_Maybe it’s a little worse than we anticipated?_

Something in Kenma’s stomach starts to knot together.

He taps the speaker button.

“—see it already?” Lev is saying.

“See what,” Kenma says quietly.

Yaku says, “There’s a review out for Tiger’s Eye from thirty minutes ago. From someone named Naoi. It doesn’t look so hot.”

Yuuji sends him another message. It’s a link, and the thumbnail above it shows Kageyama’s beautifully-plated Tokaji cake. The title underneath the image reads: _Tokyo’s Tiger’s Eye: A Dying Flame_.

Kenma feels a chill prickle up his spine. “I have to go,” he murmurs.

“It’s okay,” Yaku says. “Go ahead. We’ll call you later.”

Kenma ends the call and immediately clicks on the link.

TOKYO'S TIGER'S EYE: A DYING FLAME

Naoi Manabu

_Since its foundation by Executive Chef Kuroo Tetsurou three years ago, there is no question that Tiger’s Eye has maintained a certain level of popularity following its quick rise to Michelin stardom._

_As my guest and I were greeted at the door and led to our table by an impeccably-mannered_ maître D’ _, I saw no empty tables, and customers, most of whom had been waiting for months to finally attend their reservation, dined happily. We were seated and immediately introduced to our server. We did not require the master sommelier on staff, but he still came to our table regardless at one point near the beginning of service, and the_ maître D’ _as well_ _returned to each table in the house at least once per group of customers. Thanks to what appears to be an extensive education, he runs a well-oiled machine despite his minimal experience of just three years in the field. If there is one thing to be said about Tiger’s Eye, it is that the staff attending customers provide phenomenal service._

_Upon Tiger’s Eye’s inception, Tokyo was introduced to the realized dream of an experienced chef already known by his name from his time in Kyoto at In Flight under Executive Chef Sugawara Koushi. Kuroo Tetsurou built a fine establishment with a quality brigade of men from esteemed kitchens around the city. Since his endeavor to become the executive of his own restaurant, he has been known in the Tokyo culinary scene for his flavor combination and concentration, technical skill, and presentation of international cuisine. This is where, in my opinion, Tiger’s Eye has begun to disappoint in recent months._

_By suggestion of our server, my guest and I began with an appetizer of sunchoke, fried then cooked sous vide, with celery, onion, and mustard seed garnish. Our entrées were a filet of foie gras, pan seared, with grilled baby bok choy and a chardonnay grapefruit reduction. Finally, our dessert was a black plum cake imbued with Tokaji wine and mascarpone ice cream with a fine caramel web, all drizzled with white chocolate ganache._

_Ingredient quality is at its finest, with elements sourced from countries around the world. The portions were good for the price, and presentation—particularly for the dessert course—was pleasing to the eye. What is lacking so greatly in Tiger’s Eye is not the quality of the ingredients themselves, but the spirit of the Chef in both his cooking and in the direction of his brigade._

_The menu at Tiger’s Eye has not changed in over fourteen months. There is an evident lack of direction in Chef Kuroo’s cooking, as well as his plans for the restaurant following the achievement of his third star—the most a restaurant may be awarded. While the flavor of the ingredients was good, and there was clear technical skill from the brigade, each dish was either spiteful or emotionless. With Tiger’s Eye’s history, and with the name itself, my expectation was that of a fiery cuisine, and I would have preferred to feel even rage within the dishes (as it appears from rumor that Chef Kuroo is wont to display) rather than nothing. The course left both myself and my guest physically satiated but emotionally dissatisfied. The food was lackluster, uninspiring, and dispassionate; quality, but not exceptional, and I hesitate to say it meets the standard of the coveted third star. Whatever Chef Kuroo’s personality once was, it did not appear in his food or his restaurant when I attended service. Of the five criteria used at Michelin, product quality was Tiger’s Eye’s highest, while personality, second in importance only to flavor, was at an all-time low._

_Kuroo Tetsurou presents as an esteemed chef, and his personal history and that of his restaurant tells the same story, but I must judge based on what I experienced myself. Currently, he appears impassive, if not entirely detached from his kitchen, and this sentiment rubs off on—or, rather, brings nothing to—the food. It doesn’t seem that he can run the same kitchen that he could in previous, more acclaimed years when Tiger’s Eye saw some of its brightest days. A rapid success may have gotten to his head and made him complacent, and thus Tiger’s Eye has breached an early peak, and slowly its flame wanes. The tiger still roams, but he has lost his claws._

All too suddenly, Kenma realizes that he still doesn’t have Kuroo’s phone number.

He should have talked to him more last night. He shouldn’t have walked out of Akaashi’s office when Kuroo told him to. He should have been stubborn, forced the conversation. He should have made Kuroo finally just face things.

This truly is Kuroo’s _coup de grâce._

He gets up from his bed and finds a pair of pants, tugging them on under the hoodie he slept in. He pulls open an app and orders a car to take him out into the suburbs and back up the hill to the empty house he has only spent one night in before. Maybe, if he’s fast enough, he can make it before anything worse happens.

His phone rings again.

“Yuuji.”

“Are you going?”

“Right now.”

“Good. I’m betting on you.”

* * *

**HC: Even before studying for radiology school, and before becoming a patient care assistant, Lev has always been attuned to Kenma’s energy and feelings. Though awkward and at times overbearing in his efforts to help, Lev became quickly accustomed to Kenma’s anxiety in high school and was the first person to comfort him in unavoidable social situations and during anxiety attacks. At the start of their friendship, Kenma was nervous to go over to Lev’s parents’ home for the first time, but it turned out that acceptance and a welcoming attitude runs in the Haiba family. He never once felt anxious when visiting them. Throughout high school, he stuck by Lev’s side with his best friend acting as a carefree lightning rod for incoming overwhelming energy.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go...
> 
> I was asked on the previous chapter if asking random questions about the characters is still okay—please do! Feel free to ask questions any time if you have them! I love answering!


	25. or if special could last...

Kei saw the review four minutes after it was posted. In the twenty it took him to get to the house, Kuroo was already down to the last hundred milliliters of a bottle of cheap merlot.

He never has held his alcohol very well.

“He’s _new_ ,” Kuroo emphasizes at him from across his kitchen, leaning into it. “He’s never even been to our restaurant before that night.”

“That’s the point, Tetsurou,” Kei says. He stands near the counter with his arms crossed, watching as Kuroo paces back and forth. Kuroo’s hair is a mess in his face, untouched when he woke up and ruined since he started drinking. He had the bottle in his hand when Kei arrived, but Kei took it from him. “He’s completely objective,” Kei tells him. “Nekomata spared you because of our history with him, but Naoi sees everything at face value regardless of our past and previous ratings. And that’s all that ends up mattering.”

Kuroo’s cheeks are flushed. He keeps walking around, a splash of purple on his joggers from where he must have spilled the wine. “And that negates everything, I suppose?” he mutters.

“Yeah. It does.” Kei crosses his arms tighter, clutching the fabric of his shirt in his hands. “He may be new, but he’s not ignorant. It was clear in his review that he had heard plenty of things about you before he ever stepped foot in Tiger’s Eye.” He shakes his head. “Thank god you didn’t act up that night. God forbid a Michelin inspector sees you pour Tokaji onto a customer’s head because she didn’t like Kageyama’s cake.”

Kuroo stops pacing for a moment and turns to level his typical glare at him. “I didn’t do anything. And if I had, I would’ve had the right. I’m protecting you all. You’re my brigade.”

“You’re making us all look like fools,” Kei says evenly.

Kuroo pauses. He frowns more. “What?”

“You’re making us look like fools,” Kei says again, enunciating so that Kuroo’s drunk mind can understand him. When Kuroo gets this way, this inebriated, he has to be spoken to like he’s a child. Lately, he’s been acting like he is one. “For not quitting despite your behavior these past ten—no, eleven months now,” Kei says. He adjusts his glasses and looks at the floor. He won’t say the name, but Kuroo will know anyway. It’s all Kuroo thinks about anymore. “ _All_ of us,” he says instead.

The flush on Kuroo’s cheeks seems to deepen. He turns his face away and starts moving again. “You came here just to yell at me?”

“I’m not yelling.”

“Give me a break, Kei.”

“Figure things out, Tetsurou.”

Kuroo comes to the island and puts his hands on the edge, gripping tight enough that his fingertips turn white. His shoulders sharpen in his T-shirt and the muscles in his upper arms tighten and relax. “We could get demoted. Cut me some slack.”

Kei rolls his eyes. “You’ve had slack this whole time. All we give you is second chances.” _I’ve given you hundreds._ “They’re not going to take the star.”

“Of course they’re going to take the star.” He lifts his face to look directly into Kei’s. “Hell—they can take them all. If Naoi was there and the next Guide comes out in a matter of weeks, then we’ve had plenty of others before him that we completely missed. They’ve probably been waiting to demote us since the last Guide was published.”

“If you’re so paranoid about it, then why haven’t you ever changed the way you act in that place?” Kei says. Kuroo swallows and looks away from him. He sighs, closing his eyes. “Stop being dramatic.”

“That was _his_ star, Kei,” Kuroo says low. “I got it for him.”

Right—of course he did. Daichi is the only person Kuroo believes he ever tried for. Not for the kitchen he so desperately struggles to protect, not for his two best friends with whom he founded the restaurant in the first place, and certainly not for Kei.

“And for none of the rest of your team?” Kei asks. “Not for yourself?”

Kuroo doesn’t reply.

“It is so unfair that you think that star belongs to him. It was us who got it, Tetsurou. _Us._ It being taken away would have nothing to do with him.” Kei uncrosses one arm, removes his glasses. Rubs his face and puts them back on. Kuroo wants to fight—it’s what they know best when it comes to each other—but after last Tuesday, after Kuroo took him out of his pocket and threw him away, Kei hardly has the energy anymore. He says flatly, “I understand that you miss him, but you have got to let it go. How do you think any of this makes us feel? Me? That you’re so stuck on him it’s affecting everything?”

Kuroo straightens up from the island. “How you feel? How selfish, Kei.”

“No, _you’re_ selfish, Tetsurou,” he counters. “You hide behind these bleeding feelings for your past lover, but in reality, the only person you think about is yourself. Do you know how many people have walked out on me in my life? On _anybody_? People lose children, parents. Family.”

His voice wavers, and his mind flashes to a text he sent over the weekend: _Aki, let’s call when you get the chance. Maybe I could say hi to Hikari._ Akiteru answered that he was busy, but he would give him a call soon when he had time to talk. He never did.

Kei swallows and says, “But you get left by one boyfriend—”

“We were engaged.”

“—by one man,” he says, “and you can hardly function? Poor you.” His voice is becoming acidic. “Poor, sad little founding executive Michelin Star filthy rich chef Kuroo Tetsurou.”

Kuroo won’t look at him. “You’re being awful.”

He clutches his arms harder in his hands, painfully so, making his muscles ache under the pressure. It doesn’t even come close to the ache of the time he wasted in this house. “You _are_ awful. How many years has it been since we started this restaurant? How many years?”

“Three,” Kuroo snaps.

“ _Three._ ” He shakes his head. “And for what? To go home with you after service at three in the morning so you can have your fill, take what you need? To wake up and start over again.”

“Jesus,” Kuroo whispers. He shoves his hands against his face and rubs harshly.

Maybe arguing really is what they do best. Then Kei has plenty of things he can say.

“And that’s why you have all these servers, isn’t it?” he murmurs.

Kuroo drops his hands. “What are you saying?”

“All these boys who come in on an endless loop,” Kei says. “Shibayama, Tsuchiyu, Himekawa, Sakunami—too many names for me to remember and their faces blend together over time into nothing. And they’re all the same for one reason.” He holds Kuroo’s gaze firmly. “They’re vulnerable. You take advantage of their being defenseless and needing the job, and so they’re easy to get to because they can’t run away—not until the end of the night or a few weeks down the line when they’ve realized they can’t take it anymore.” Kuroo’s jaw tightens, and Kei only nods. “At first, they _can’t_ leave you, because they’re working for you and you’re their boss. And eventually, when they do get out, you don’t have to care. You don’t have to try because you have nothing in it. You can just go choose another one at your will.” He looks down again. “You can control them like you couldn’t control Daichi.” His hands loosen, leaving wrinkles in his shirt sleeves. “That’s what I am to you.”

Kuroo makes a noise in his throat. He shoves at the mess of his hair. “No, you’re not.”

Kei blinks at the floor. It ought to be cleaned; it’s been a while since he vacuumed. Do Kuroo’s sheets need changing? Did he ever dust the windowsill?

_Enough. No more. Just…forget all of it. Everything._

“You’re right,” he says. “Not in the same way. I don’t have to do what you want for fear you’ll fire me if I don’t. I can leave you any time.” He swallows down the lump in his throat. “But I still _do_ have to, and I _don’t_ leave you, because…” He doesn’t finish the sentence. He couldn’t even hand Kuroo the letter.

Kuroo just stands there in his wrinkled, faded T-shirt. If Kei got closer, went around the island and melded into Kuroo like he’s done too many times, he imagines that Kuroo’s natural musty smell would be overtaken by the wine. It’s not Kei’s to smell anymore, anyway.

“Say something,” he says quietly. “I left everything behind for you.”

Kuroo crosses his arms too, digging his fingers into his biceps. He mumbles, “Maybe you shouldn’t have.”

A pained laugh escapes Kei’s lungs. “Oh my god.” He lets go of his shirt and rubs his eyes underneath his glasses. “I don’t get it, Tetsurou. I really don’t understand.” He drops his hands to his sides. “How can’t you see it? What you did for all of us.”

The frown pulls Kuroo’s eyebrows together. “I’m drunk, Kei, so you’re going to have to not be so goddamn poetic.”

Kei laughs again, bitterly. In his head, he hears Bokuto’s voice, back when he was introducing Kenma to the kitchen, to Kuroo: _You’ve always been so saccharine, Tsukishima_. He has always been someone who feels just a little bit too much but has never allowed enough to show through. Even when he lets it out—gentle kisses in the morning light, neat words on a sheet of paper—it never seems to end up how he wanted it to.

He takes a leveling breath and says, “This was just a job for me until I started working for you. Until I met you.”

Kuroo turns his body to face him. “What are you talking about?”

“You changed things for me, all right?” All at once he’s looking into Kuroo’s eyes, and he can feel on his face the same desperation that he’s seen from Kuroo all too often these past weeks. It feels just how he thought it would—the ache for something he’s afraid he can’t have. “The restaurant industry…” he says. “It sucks. It’s backbreaking and depressing, and I never felt creative until I came to your kitchen. You honed me to my finest edge. You brought out every notion I didn’t know I had. You made me feel like I was _doing_ something. You let me…” He swallows. “You gave me the chance to do what I’ve always wanted. What I gave up my life for. Don’t you get that?”

Kuroo says, “Kei.”

He’s saying too much—everything he’s held back for three years. The bottle he kept inside himself overflows with every thought he lets out into this kitchen. “I left everything behind because I felt you brought more into my life than I could have had without you,” he says. “I sacrificed the person I was before so that you could shape me into who I am today.” When he takes a step closer to the island across from Kuroo, he feels unsteady on his feet. “The three years I’ve spent working with you have been some of the finest in my life, and to see it crumbling since we reached what should have been our greatest point…” He stops in the middle of the floor, holds up his hands with his fingers parted and stares down at them. They’re shaking. “To just stand here uselessly watching it spill through the spaces between my fingers because of…of something so… _insignificant_.”

“That’s not fair,” Kuroo says back. He’s facing Kei but isn’t looking at him.

Kei laughs and lowers his hands again. “You’re right. It’s _so_ unfair. It’s unfair to all of us, but because of what you’ve decided to do to me all this time, it’s especially unfair to me.”

“Kei…”

“When you hired me…” He shakes his head again. It feels heavy on his shoulders, or maybe that’s just the weight of lost time. “Even just that act changed things. Just meeting you for the first time—talking to you over the phone. It was the beginning of the shape, the new form. We all felt that way, but…I don’t know. I don’t know if I thought I was special, or. Or what.”

Finally, Kuroo releases his arms and lets them relax down. He looks into Kei’s face with his brow tilted up in the middle like he does when part of the wall he constantly builds up around himself starts to crumble back down. Still, the space it makes reveals only a piece of him. Kei has never been able to be the one who could tear it down entirely. That’s somebody else’s job now. Somebody who can do it with very little effort—only a few weeks’ worth. Who Kuroo breaks his own barriers for.

“We barely knew each other,” Kuroo says weakly.

“Am I wrong to say that we connected?”

Kuroo nods. “We did. I couldn’t have asked for a better sous chef. You were my first choice, and I made the right one and have never once regretted it.”

“Never?” Kei asks uselessly. “Not even when Daichi left?”

Kuroo pauses and swallows, his eyes flicking to the side. “That’s different. It’s different.”

“It’s not.”

“It is,” Kuroo pushes out. “There’s a difference between you being my chef and you being my—” He stops.

_You can’t even say boyfriend. But why would you? I wasn’t._

Kei shakes his head and starts turning away. He knows what it looks like when Kuroo is shutting him out again.

“But, Kei—”

Oh? Kuroo is calling him back? This is a first.

He turns back around.

“Never,” Kuroo says. “Truly never.”

A mixture of irritation and frustration starts pooling behind Kei’s ribs, eroding away at what is already so ruined. If Kuroo never regretted having him around—in the kitchen or in his bed—then why did it turn out this way? He did everything he could. He did everything Kuroo asked for and so many things he didn’t. So why not him?

He feels his brow twitch as he says, “Then I don’t understand.”

But Kuroo is only partially listening. His eyes have moved to some point on the counter, near Kei but not on him. For once, he speaks calmly. “We started conceptualizing the first menu together, didn’t we? Before we brought the others in.”

Kei sighs again. It’s a clear afternoon; the sun enters through the kitchen window and does what it always does to Kuroo’s skin. “You taught me everything,” he says.

“And that menu got us our first star.”

The irritation prickles hot inside Kei’s chest. “You changed my life.”

“We became so successful. So much in so little time.”

“You never listen, Tetsurou. It’s one of your best and worst traits.”

“I didn’t teach you,” Kuroo murmurs, frowning softly at nothing. His head tilts to the side. “You went to culinary school.”

“Look at me,” Kei says. “Look at me.”

“You worked with Ukai Keishin. You didn’t need me.”

It burns in Kei’s throat now, too. “School taught me how to cook. Ukai’s taught me how to work in a restaurant. _You_ taught me how to be a chef.” Kuroo pauses but is still looking away, pointedly now. “You taught me everything. I knew nothing before you. You’re brilliant and bewildering and…sublime,” Kei breathes. “The only experiences I’d had in all my life were how to write an essay and how to hold a knife. That menu was just part of the beginning. _Look at me_.”

Kuroo won’t. “I’m ruining your career.”

“You’re not.” His voice is louder than usual. Is he the one fighting now? Is this what real anger feels like?

No. This is what it feels like to lose your grip—to be denied it—on something that’s right in front of you.

“I am,” Kuroo says. He finally looks back into Kei’s face. His eyes are glassy, but Kei isn’t sure if it’s from the drinking or something else.

All at once, the fire in his chest withers away. The posture that was drilled into him during school, that Kuroo somehow made even better, can’t hold him up any longer. His shoulders fall as he lets out a breath, and his face goes with it. “Fine. You are. Mine, and yours, and your whole team. All of us who are here because we believe in you. The four of us from the start, and the rest you’ve hired since then.” He points back in the direction of the front door, in disbelief of what he’s about to say. “Do you think Kenma would have come back a second day if working in your restaurant didn’t at least mean _something_?”

Kuroo’s visible eye widens almost imperceptibly.

_Yeah. I know how to get your attention now. All I have to do is say his name._

“So you’re right,” Kei says. “You’re ruining every one of us with your terrible attitude and your pride.” He shakes his head. “Even him.”

Kuroo tries to put up another brick in his wall, but even Kei can see his hand shaking as he does so. “What does it matter.”

Kei glares at him. “Don’t just give up. We’ll lose our jobs if you’re out.”

“You’re all skilled.” A strange smile pulls onto half of Kuroo’s mouth. “Each of you has worked for what used to be one of the top restaurants in the city. You’ll get other jobs. Better ones. Ukai would take you back in a heartbeat.”

“Shut up, Kuroo. Just stop it.”

“What does it matter, anyway?” Kuroo shoots at him, lifting his arms out. “What does any of it matter to you?”

Kei stops. He stands there staring at Kuroo’s face—the one that fits perfectly into his hands. The mouth he quieted too many times. The hair he used to push his fingers through and watch Kuroo close his eyes. The bangs he was never allowed to brush away.

He says low, monotonously, “You pathetic idiot. I’m in love with you.”

Kuroo leans back. His arms lower down to his sides. “What?”

Kei just rubs his forehead, squeezing his eyes shut. “I said I’m in love with you, Tetsurou. I have been for three years.”

Kuroo’s lips sit parted, dark on the inner portion near his teeth from the wine. He says, “Kei.” He takes a hesitant step sideways, around the island between them and toward him.

“As if you didn’t know,” Kei says. He looks down as Kuroo’s legs come into view, nearing him. “You used it against me.”

“Kei. I didn’t…” His feet stop more than an arm’s length away.

Kei looks back up at him. “It was your voice first. Over the phone, when you were first bringing Tiger’s Eye into existence and you needed a team. You needed me.” He takes a breath. “I had only heard about you before, and I saw you once in the _Times_ with Sugawara, but when I heard your voice, I knew immediately that I had to be with you. To go work in whatever place you created, wherever it would be, because you were going to radically change the course of my life.”

He realizes that he’s brought his hands in front of himself to mess with his fingertips. He chews on his lip for a moment, and Kuroo’s gaze flicks downward to look at where his teeth dig in.

Finally, after all this time, he’s just saying it.

“And when I met you in person for the first time…” He laughs once, dryly. “I remember thinking, there’s no way, _no_ way he’s single. And eventually I became sure that I was right, and I remember—so clearly, awfully, I remember realizing that I didn’t care. That I had to figure out a way. Even if it meant just waiting.” He sniffs, looking down at the place on his finger where not long ago Kuroo’s knife sliced into his skin as he was peeling an apple. “When you came on to me a year into it…by that point, you’d taken everything I had by creating me the way you did. So by then, even though I knew deep down that you were still with someone, I thought, this is it. I’m in.” He clicks his tongue. His hands drop down along with his tone. “What a child I am.”

“You’re—”

“I should have seen it all coming. I knew you were with him, and for some reason, for some stupid naive dream, I thought it wouldn’t matter.” When he looks up, the light from the window behind Kuroo’s form flashes over his lenses into his own eyes. “And the same goes for now, with Kenma,” he says. “I thought that I could wait for you to become a whole man and foolishly believed that when you did, you would still choose me. I should have known better. That if Daichi could be someone else besides me, then you could find another someone else once he was gone. And now you have.” He shakes his head one more time. “And it looks like this is going to be the end. Because I couldn’t make any difference.”

“Kei, that’s…” He looks like he might take another step closer, but he doesn’t.

“It’s okay. I know it’s true. Since you cut things off with me, I’ve understood well enough.” He nods, objectively, as if all of this makes perfect sense. “For you, he’s powerful.”

Kuroo lifts his hands to his sides but drops them again. “Kei, I…” He blinks a few times. “Don’t know what to say.”

Kei nods again. “You don’t usually. You’re not good with words—you speak in actions. If there’s one thing I’ve done better than anyone else for the past three years, it’s watch you.”

“No. No, stop.” Kuroo brings his hands up to his head, shoving through his hair. He turns around then back again, tilting his chin up and clenching his eyes shut, wrinkling his skin at the corners. “That’s not—I didn’t—”

“Am I wrong?” Kei says calmly. “Did you think we were on the same page? For a long time, you wouldn’t even let me kiss you.”

“I wasn’t trying to use you,” Kuroo pleads, putting a hand out toward him. The other goes to his forehead under his bangs. “I’m so frustrated.”

“That doesn’t matter,” Kei tells him. “If you were trying to or not.”

“Don’t think I didn’t care about you,” Kuroo says.

Kei tilts his head. “You have an interesting way of showing your feelings toward me.”

Kuroo slides his hand down his face. “What am I supposed to say? I don’t know what we were.”

_We were nothing. You were you, and I was just an hourglass._

“I respect your choice,” Kei says. He hears a strange finality in his voice, a resignation he thought had come before but that now settles into him fully. Maybe he won’t need to leave the restaurant so early anymore. Work will go back to normal. “And so, now…”

“What?” Kuroo asks, looking over at him in that plaintive way.

Kei shrugs. “I get over it. I have to, and I have a right to. And so do you. From Daichi.” He pauses, watching Kuroo’s eyes avert again. Are they even more glassy now? “Are you listening, Tetsurou?”

“I am. I’m listening to you.”

“Good.” He shifts on his feet, brushing at the wrinkles he made in his shirt sleeves. “You have the right, and you have the obligation. Because of the rest of us, you have to. Star or no star.”

Kuroo just shakes his head, just barely. “I…I’ll…”

“I think I’m leaving now.” Kei pushes his glasses up and starts to take a step backwards, but Kuroo moves forward, grabs his hand, and holds it. Kei feels the desperation radiating through him from Kuroo’s touch, and something suddenly wells up in his throat that he has to swallow back down.

“I’m sorry I’ve made you want to leave early every night,” Kuroo says.

It takes Kei aback. He’s bemused, disconcerted, looking into Kuroo’s face, finally close to him again. _How much has he changed you? You really will go back to where you were before, won’t you. For him._ “Did you just apologize to me?”

Kuroo’s tongue swipes between his lips in a show of nervousness. “I’m trying, Kei, all right? It’s not like I know what to do. I’m not good at…I mean, I don’t know how to…” He sighs and closes his eyes. “God, I can’t even talk to you.”

Kei just looks down at their hands together, Kuroo’s thumb pressed gently between two knuckles.

“Do you mean…leaving?” Kuroo asks, very quietly, with his eyes still closed.

Kei nearly smiles. _No. Never_. “You know I can’t escape that kitchen no matter how hard I try.”

Kuroo’s visible eye flashes open, a glimmer of his dark iris and dilated pupil.

Kei sighs, adjusts his glasses once more, and turns his face away as he feels the tips of his ears warm up. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Sober up before then.”

Kuroo squeezes his hand. There have been plenty of looks that have said to Kei that Kuroo might want to pull him in, but this one is new. Is this what Kenma sees? Or is that reserved—something he’ll never know?

There’s no use in telling himself he doesn’t want to, that he would mind at all stepping close and searching every place he could for Kuroo’s true smell, feeling Kuroo one more time. He’s always wanted that from Kuroo. He’s always wanted everything from him. But Kuroo never had everything available to give, and certainly not anymore. Kenma took the rest of it.

He tells himself to finally give it up.

He gently pulls their hands apart and brings his up to Kuroo’s face. With his fingertips, he brushes Kuroo’s bangs to the side, revealing the other half that Kei hasn’t seen in eleven months. It looks exactly the same as it always did.

Kuroo doesn’t even flinch.

_Enough. No more._

He brings his hand back down and watches Kuroo’s bangs fall back into place. He sighs out, “Someday.”

“Don’t go,” Kuroo says. “I’ll find the right words.”

Kei shakes his head. “I should be gone soon.” _The longer I wait, the closer he gets._

“You don’t have to. I won’t try anything.”

Kei laughs. “I know you won’t. I’m not the one you love, anyway.” He turns around, looking at the near-empty wine bottle he put on the counter. Will Kuroo pick it back up when he steps out of this house for the last time? He moves toward the door and says, “See you tomorrow, Tetsurou.”

He doesn’t wait to hear if Kuroo answers him as he pulls the door open and walks out into the sunlight.

He drives back the way he came, down the only road that leads up this hill. But he hardly makes it one kilometer before it’s suddenly too difficult to see clearly anymore. He pulls over to the side at a stretch of land between two houses and gets out, freeing himself from his seatbelt and the confined space of his car as quickly as he can. He goes to the grass at the curb and sits down, takes off his glasses, and holds them in his hand. An early-winter breeze begins to cool the tracks on his cheeks.

* * *

**HC:**

**_Tetsurou,_ **

**_I’m writing to tell you something you already know._ **

**_We’ve been given our third star. This is something I knew would happen, and as much as you remain humble about your abilities while never ceasing to brag about ours, I believe that you knew it, too. You are brilliant, both as a chef and as a person, and though this is what some might say is a peak reached, and though your life is something I have been drawn into in a way that many people wouldn’t understand, I hope that things will stay the same. And I want to tell you that while I am truly proud of what we have accomplished and am grateful for the accolades we’ve been given as a kitchen and a restaurant, what matters most to me is nothing that can be displayed on a website, or in the Guide itself._ **

**_And this much, you know, too._ **

**_I never felt that I would accomplish anything significant in my life until I met you. I would live well, and I would be fine by any conventional standard. But meeting you brought something into my life that I often struggle to find the words for. It is hard to describe the feelings I have toward you. The time I have spent with you has changed me for the better. All of the time—at the restaurant and elsewhere—growing with your guidance and learning about myself in the privacy of you. There is something unique about the things between us, or at least I feel this way. Objectively, as in the eyes of others, I can’t speak to what we have, but as I look into my own heart and try to recognize what is there, most times I come up short. I hope you understand what I’m trying to say. I feel that, in the same way, you already know._ **

**_When my efforts to make sense of myself and you come to any conclusion, it always ends at this: I feel that I could have you in my life and be happy regardless of the gain or loss of anything else._ **

**_Thank you is all I can say. For this dream that you asked me to be a part of, this destiny that we’ve worked so hard to reach together._ **

**_We did it._ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unofficially, I quite like [these songs](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3nU8OVPfYFYRr5SnYUiKnP) for Kei. If you only listen to one, make it Rex Orange County's "Happiness".  
> I was also suggested "tolerate it" by Taylor Swift, and that fits just as well. If you have any others you like, I'd love to hear them.
> 
> Lastly, I need to take another quick break--this semester is a heavy load! I'll see you all in two weeks!


	26. ...just a little bit longer.

A haze hangs over the city in the distance that dissipates before it can reach out into the suburbs and up the hill. Kenma stares at it as he’s driven up, flashes of other houses going by his vision, barely registering. He wonders where under that grey blur Tiger’s Eye sits. If the sun can reach through and light the insignia on the front of the restaurant or not.

His heart pumps steadily, a stray beat every once in a while climbing into his throat. This is his third time on this road, only the second during daylight, but he can tell that he isn’t far from Kuroo’s house.

When he faces forward again, looking out the windshield, something catches his eye down the road.

“I’ll get out here,” he tells his driver.

The driver looks at him in the rearview as he starts to take off his seatbelt. “Are you sure? There’s still a minute or two to go.”

“I’m sure. Thank you.”

The car pulls over to the side of the street. Kenma gives his driver a bow of the head, gets out, and stands away to let the car turn and disappear again down the slope of the hill. He puts his hands in the pocket of his hoodie and goes.

“How long have you been there?” he calls out.

Tsukishima glances up at him from where he’s sitting in the grass near his car, his feet over the curb on the asphalt. In plain clothes and with his glasses removed, he looks much younger, and far less intimidating. Here, he isn’t a sous chef, and Kenma isn’t a server, and Kuroo is only Kuroo. “Not long, I think,” he says.

Kenma approaches him. “How bad is it?”

Tsukishima twists his glasses in his hand by the frame. The lenses catch the light and flicker in Kenma’s eyes. “I don’t know how he’ll act with you.”

Kenma nods. “Okay.”

“Make sure that you—”

“I don’t know if what you say will help,” Kenma says.

Tsukishima closes his eyes at the interruption, waits, then sighs and says in an even tone, “Just listen to me, Kenma. You know more about what’s been happening lately, but I know him better than you do.” He looks out at the haze. “I know almost every version of him.”

Tsukishima is right—there should be no ill will between them. Whatever happened when Daichi was still around back then isn’t for Kenma to judge. Tsukishima deserves respect as a human no matter where they’re standing or what they’re wearing. And in the end, Tsukishima has been stuck in a loop with Kuroo too, just one of a different kind.

Kenma takes his hands out of his pocket and pays attention.

“When he’s drunk,” Tsukishima says, “you have to speak firmly with him. It will be hard for him to say things back or to look you in the eyes, especially if he feels cornered, because he’s not good with his emotions. Even if you ask him a question, he might just say your name in response. He’s already had a bottle of wine. He didn’t stumble when I was with him, but he paces when he’s truly anxious. Sometimes he bites his lips so much that they bleed. At a certain level of intoxication—if he’s had any more since I left—he’ll start pretending that he’s happy, but anything you say might make him angry. It’s all a façade.” He stares out down the hill. “He won’t hurt you physically. But he may be caustically honest.”

Kenma watches the reflected shapes of Tsukishima’s glasses tremble on the side of his car. He says, “I understand.”

“I hope you can make him better. I’d like to see him smile during service again.”

“Do you think they’ll take the star?” Kenma asks.

Tsukishima sighs. He puts his glasses back on, then rests his arms on his knees. “I don’t care one way or the other.”

Kenma brushes his hair behind his ear. “I don’t believe you.”

But Tsukishima replies, “I didn’t join him for stars.”

Of course. None of them did. Certainly not Tsukishima.

“I’ll go see him now,” Kenma says.

He starts to walk past where Tsukishima is sitting, wondering how many minutes it will take to reach the house on foot, how much Kuroo can take in during that amount of time. Tendou’s voice appears in his head: _You walk places when you’re nervous._ But for some reason, suddenly, he isn’t nervous at all.

What Bokuto said to him over the phone last night keeps playing over and over.

When he gets a few steps away from Tsukishima, he stops and says, “Get up off the ground. We all respect you too much for that.”

He thinks he hears the soft click of Tsukishima pushing up his glasses before he continues up the road.

The house looks the same now as it did before, but it feels very different. He makes his way up the path to the front door, replaying over and over again things Ennoshita said to him on that very first night.

_Is he drunk?_

_Buzzed._

_Is there a difference?_

_Yeah. There is… Sometimes it’s this, sometimes it’s more than just buzzed, sometimes he’s all right, sometimes he’s roaring mad the moment he turns the handle. You never know with him. Everything is a façade._

The front door is unlocked. He pushes it open and steps inside.

On the kitchen counter sits an empty bottle of red wine, and on the couch sits an empty man. Kuroo has a dark stain on his pants and a half-drunk bottle of beer in his hand, holding it by the neck with his fingertips, swirling it around. He looks up as if he only just noticed anybody walking in, and when he sees that it’s Kenma, he smiles.

“I just realized I’ve never seen you fully out of uniform. Except naked.” He laughs.

The first thing Kenma thinks to say is, “I hope you understand what you’ve done to Tsukishima.”

Kuroo just laughs again and waves his bottle. He sits leaned back into the couch with his knees open. “You think I don’t know I’ve broken something about him? I’m not _that_ oblivious. He’s more eloquent than you.”

The same emotions that well up inside of Kenma half of the time he’s with Kuroo begin to do so again. _I’ve said one thing to you_ _and it’s already like this._ “I came here because I wanted to make sure you were okay. Clearly I was wrong.”

“You’re too late.” He stands from the couch.

“This is a really inappropriate reaction.”

Kuroo tilts his head. His messy, unwashed bangs move further over the right side of his face. “But who really cares, anyway?”

Kenma stands there watching him approach. “Do you think that I don’t?”

“You tell me. I care about you.” Kuroo walks closer to him. “You didn’t really come here to talk about the review, did you.”

Didn’t he? What is he really here for, after all? Maybe the review is just like anything else—a façade covering up the underlying problem of what happened when Kuroo got his third star and everything he’s done since.

Then it’s come to the point that it isn’t just evading true answers for Tendou, or omitting information from Yaku. Kenma has even started lying to himself.

Eventually, everything will have to stop.

He turns his face to the side. “You’re wasted, Tetsurou.”

“I’m thinking,” Kuroo says. “I’ve been thinking since the day I met you and it freaks me out. I want you to be happy and fulfilled, but I’m scared I can’t give that to you.” He grins, still walking closer. “And you look great in a hoodie. You should grow your hair longer. I want to run my hands through it. I want to see it wet.”

He reaches for Kenma’s hair by his cheek, but Kenma shifts away. Kuroo catches him by the waist instead, leans down, and kisses him. Kenma feels their lips touch, the intense heat of Kuroo’s body, his metabolism. He feels himself reflexively close his eyes and open his mouth. He can taste the alcohol on Kuroo’s breath.

He pushes Kuroo away, turning his head again. “Stop it. You’re disgusting me.”

Kuroo blinks down at him, then laughs. “You’re really wishy washy, you know that? You take _forever_ to make a decision.” He sighs and uses his free hand to push his hair back from his face, revealing his full symmetry and the flush on his cheeks, the glass in his eyes, before his bangs fall forward again. “Trying to figure out if you like me as much as I like you makes my head ache.” His lips are very red. “Just let me kiss you. Nobody can see.”

Kenma squints at him. “What do you mean nobody can see?”

Kuroo clicks his tongue and waves his bottle around. “Isn’t that what you want? I thought you wanted us to be private—”

“I don’t care, Tetsurou,” he says flatly. “Do you think nobody knows? Do you think nobody expected you to lay a hand on me when I got there? I was truly the only one who was ignorant of your reputation. And even when I found out, even when…” He shakes his head. “I still stayed.”

Kuroo laughs again, a strange giggle. “Déjà vu. Maybe you shouldn’t have.”

Something about it curdles inside of Kenma. “The worst part is that I can’t tell if you’re treating me like this because you’re drunk, or if it’s just you.”

The smile fades from Kuroo’s face. He swallows and licks his lips, and as his hand takes a full grip on the bottle, he averts his eyes. “I told you I’m scared of you.” 

“And I told you not to be. Scared and whatever this is are not the same thing.”

“They are,” Kuroo murmurs. “I’m terrified that it’s all going to disappear and take you with it.”

With those words, something inside of Kenma snaps. Whether or not Kuroo realizes how manipulative the things he says can seem, he doesn’t know, but it shouldn’t matter. He may not ever know if Kuroo is telling him the truth, even when that’s all he’s ever asked for. All he ever wanted was for Kuroo to speak the truth to him because in doing so, he would be speaking it to himself.

_A good guy will make sure of that,_ Tendou told him. _If that guy wants you, he’ll figure that out._

Right. And what about what Kenma wants? The effort Kuroo promised he would put in isn’t happening. So why has he put in so much of his own?

_Maybe you stepping back completely will be the splash of cold water he needs._

_To be honest with you, kid_ , _we don’t know what would happen if you walked away._

It isn’t him walking out. It’s Kuroo, constantly pushing. Kenma, and everyone else.

He takes a breath, trying to calm himself. He looks up into Kuroo’s face and says, “I think I’ve decided something after all. I’m tired of this. You desperately need to figure things out.”

Kuroo’s usual frown pulls onto his face. He looks an absolute wreck. “Sound advice. Very articulate from both you and Kei.”

Kenma just sighs and shakes his head, looking off down the hallway that leads to Kuroo’s bedroom.

“Can’t you have one reaction?” Kuroo suddenly says. Kenma gazes up at him again, looking into Kuroo’s visible eye, dark and fully dilated. “Do you have any emotions other than irritation and apathy?”

He thought he did. He has felt so many things for Kuroo—enough to max out his entire inventory to the point where he couldn’t understand his own emotions anymore. A mix of feelings he’s never experienced and didn’t know how to handle.

_And yes_ , he realizes. _Anger._

They aren’t in Akaashi’s office, but they might as well be. If they’re going to fight, then so be it.

He says back, “Don’t you have any besides pathetic depression and immature rage?”

Kuroo recoils. “Wow. Bitter words.”

“You take everything you feel and channel it into just being mad because you don’t know how else to deal with anything,” Kenma says. “You didn’t know how to deal with heartbreak, so you began blocking everything off from you and disguising it as protective instinct. And you know what?” He brings his hands up and pushes his hair back, letting it sway back down to the sides of his face as he draws in a stinging breath. “I am bitter. I’m bitter, I’m angry, and I’m—I’m sad. This sucks.” He drops his hands to his sides. “I want a good relationship but neither of us are enjoying this. _None_ of us.”

He watches the anger that Tsukishima warned him about begin to creep onto Kuroo’s features. “Then why are you here?” Kuroo asks.

Kenma closes his eyes briefly. “You’re intelligent, but you are so unaware.” He looks back at Kuroo’s face. “Tsukishima came here too, didn’t he? And the others would if you wouldn’t act this way. You matter to us. We _all_ believe in you, not just Daichi. Why else would we work for you? Never mind the kitchen—do you think we just _love_ being waiters?”

“And you just _hate_ the job, do you?” Kuroo fires back, motioning the bottle toward him. “You stayed despite despising the work?”

Kenma pauses. His voice comes out quiet. “Why can’t you understand that people care about you regardless of how little you care about them?”

Kuroo narrows his eyes. “I do care about you, Kenma. Haven’t I said that enough?”

_No, you haven’t. But…_ “It’s not about what you say, Tetsurou,” he says evenly. “You can say anything you want. It’s…” He sighs. None of this is any use. “I’ve been foolish, haven’t I.”

The arm holding the bottle lowers down. Kuroo starts to just stare at him—the way he does across the house at Tiger’s Eye, in the hallway, in cold storage, so many times in the pantry. The way he stared at him last week from one meter away on his bed, or in the moonlight while they were in his sheets, or in the morning when Kenma was going to leave.

“Kenma,” he says.

_He might just say your name._

That’s not good enough. It’s never been enough. Why has Kenma let Kuroo think for all of this time that it was?

“I’ve been so naive,” he says. “I don’t know if I thought I was special, or…” He lifts his hands then lowers them again.

Kuroo blinks at him, glances past him to his door. His hand on the bottle tightens further.

“I just don’t get it,” Kenma says. “I don’t understand.”

Kuroo says, voice gravelly in his throat, “Understand what?”

Kenma looks up at him. “Why don’t you value me?”

Kuroo’s lips part.

“You value everybody else you chose,” Kenma says, “but you still treat me like this. And I’m different because you have feelings for me, but that’s still not enough. It should be _more_ , but it’s not. You still don’t put me on the same level as them. I don’t understand why.”

Kuroo just shakes his head. His eyebrow starts to lift in the middle.

In Kenma’s mind, Tendou has been replaced on the podium in the infomercial. Yaku stands there with the book instead, exhausted in a pair of scrubs with his identification badge clipped to his collar, the uncapped marker in his hand. The last word on the cover has been scribbled out and now instead of _Restaurant_ it says: _How To Run A Relationship._ The camera zooms in on him, and he doesn’t smile at all as he says, _Let’s take a look inside._ On the first page, serif lettering in red reads: NOT LIKE THIS. He puts the cap back on the marker and walks off set.

Kenma watches a bead of water slide down the side of Kuroo’s bottle from his palm and drip onto the floor.

“Kenma,” Kuroo says, quieter now, softer.

But Kenma only shakes his head again. “There is no miracle I can work on you. There’s nothing left I can do. I’ve put myself through all of this, and in the end, that makes it my fault.”

Yaku’s words go through his head— _If a change happens, it’ll have to be him_ —and he realizes now that though he lied to himself saying that he did, he really never listened to Yaku at all. Ignoring him was just one in a long list of irreversible mistakes. Was there any way he could have handled this better, or differently? If he’d done something else, looked from a different angle, changed his strategy like he’s so used to doing when he’s playing a game, might it have turned out better than this?

Is there any use wondering at all?

“I should have walked out a long time ago,” he says. “I should have listened to my friends.” He looks at the floor. “I should have listened to Yuuji.”

“What about Terushima?” Kuroo says low.

Right. For once, there’s one thing the rest of them don’t know, certainly not Kuroo, because Yuuji respects him. _He’s someone Yaku would like,_ he thinks. _But I couldn’t even mention him_.

He laughs once, dryly. “I guess he didn’t tell you. Or anybody. Yuuji is a very good person.” He meets Kuroo’s gaze directly. “He and I had dinner together.”

Kuroo’s face twitches and his hands move a little, but he doesn’t say anything.

“He asked to take me on a date two weeks ago,” Kenma tells him, “and I said yes. He took me around Ameyoko, and we sat and had tea. I know so much about him now. And he was just…” He thinks back to that night and wonders where on his list of irreversible mistakes the end of it falls. “He was lovely. He was a perfect gentleman and I had a really nice time. It’s so effortless to be around him.”

“Did he kiss you?”

Terribly, the insecurity in Kuroo’s voice pings up in some part of Kenma’s mind and he relishes it. “Half of me believes that I shouldn’t tell you the answer to that.”

“We’ve slept together.”

“Does that actually mean anything to you?”

Again, Kuroo doesn’t respond. Tsukishima was more right than Kenma could know.

“He kissed my cheek,” he says. “He _hugged_ me. He held a completely normal conversation with me and cared about my interests. He asked me about what I like and told me about himself. He made the effort and he knew my value from the beginning. He required not one bit of work on my part. Not once did I have to convince him of anything about me. Whatever I am, he recognized it as it is.”

Kuroo’s face betrays his intense jealousy. “Why don’t you just get with him then?”

Kenma scoffs. With each step, this situation gets more and more unbelievable. “Tetsurou, are you kidding? I turned him down because of _you_.” Kuroo stares at him, mouth open. “He was fantastic and he has been since then. He’s been a genuinely good man and I’ve never once felt uncomfortable around him even after that night. And I still turned him down because I—I thought you could…try. Just _try_. But you fooled me.” His throat tightens, cinching around his voice. “I don’t know why, but I liked you. I was drawn to you and I thought that I could get to you like everyone else told me I could.”

“You did,” Kuroo says.

But Kenma says, “Did I?”

Kuroo looks away, angling his face down and hiding behind his bangs again. “Your big mistake, then? Letting mister perfect get away for the likes of me?” He glances back at Kenma.

Kenma narrows his eyes and his lips turn down at the corners. As he feels the disgust on his own face, Kuroo’s hand comes up, shaking, to his chest as though Kenma stabbed him there. “What’s wrong with you?” Kenma breathes out.

And like always, Kuroo takes the emotions he’s feeling—the desperation, the pain, and whatever it is that he truly feels for Kenma—and turns it into a useless rage. “I don’t know, Kenma,” he says, voice raised. He throws out the arm holding the bottle. “I don’t fucking know. Why don’t you ask everyone that’s left me before? Why don’t you ask Kei? He’s been in love with me forever and I didn’t do anything about it but use him.”

Kenma blinks. This is the first sign he’s ever seen of Kuroo genuinely understanding something he’s done, the way he’s affected people. What really happened with Tsukishima before he got here? Everything, he figures. The final blows. Total knockout.

He looks up at Kuroo and thinks, _You’re sentient._

“Or, better,” Kuroo says. He leans in with a sneer and Kenma catches the tang of alcohol again on his breath. “Why don’t you ask Daichi?” He waves the bottle. “Let me know if you can find him, that’d be crazy. I bet he could tell you everything.”

The anger spills over from Kuroo and soaks into Kenma, too. “You know what, Tetsurou? I don’t want to hear about your ex. I really don’t. That’s _lame._ ”

Kuroo runs his hand over his face. “Oh, Jesus, what grade are we in?”

“Exactly.” He waits for Kuroo to look him in the eyes again. “You’re twisted over him because his leaving caused something that you have yet to resolve for yourself. But the problem isn’t him or what he did, and you’re not scared of me. You’re afraid that you’re too weak to maintain a healthy relationship because of your own self-worth issues and this job, so you give up before you even start. If you never try, you’ll never have to fail again. But just because you choose not to play doesn’t mean you can’t still lose.” He stops, letting it dig its way into Kuroo’s mind and heart. If the things he says end up hurting Kuroo, then… “Get a hold of yourself. You’re twenty-six years old. You don’t get to be an asshole to people because someone broke up with you.”

Kuroo pushes his hair back, shaking his head. He keeps looking around at anything but Kenma. “This feels ridiculous.”

“It is,” Kenma says. “I don’t think you understand this, Tetsurou. You need to realize something before it’s too late for you.” He takes a breath and lets it out. “What happened back then is not going to change. It has an effect and I know that—I get it. But that doesn’t change the fact that every day from here on out is still worth trying for. That the new and other people in your life matter just as much. That something good exists for you each day regardless of your circumstances.”

He flashes to Akaashi’s line that he had ingrained into his skull from his start at Tiger’s Eye. That rule that he never really followed. The rule he consciously broke, and that, after everything, led him here.

For the briefest moment, he wonders what would have happened if he had just held his tongue and kept his head down like he was told. Four weeks later, would he be fine like Hinata was? Would Kuroo have just stopped, and would he have been accepted into the restaurant as a permanent member? Would none of this have happened?

But it’s stupid of him to think about. There was never a universe where he wasn’t going to stand up for himself, and there was never a time when he wasn’t going to try harder than he should have. Lev was right—it’s because he likes to fix things. He took on the challenge of Kuroo, and in the process he developed feelings for him, and all of it culminates to right now.

Will this conversation mean anything in the future? Is this all?

The truth of everything is that he was brought into Tiger’s Eye so that Kuroo would fall in love with him.

“I know,” he says, “that I come off like I don’t care about things.” His voice is starting to waver. “But I do. I try. I worked through clinical anxiety and a university degree. I’ve been rejected from plenty of jobs and I still kept trying. I pushed through all the bullshit you’ve thrown at me since night one.”

He pauses, swallows it down. When he looks up at Kuroo, his eye is shining, bending the afternoon light at the corners where water is starting to gather. So both of them are on the verge of taking off their masks, then.

“It’s okay to be a little jaded. About work, or about love, or especially about yourself,” Kenma says. “I get that, too. But _something_ in your life has value. Whether it’s a Michelin Star restaurant, a rival worth fighting, a beautiful house, a sense of accomplishment for even past things. A kitchen full of people who believe in you.” He blinks rapidly, trying to get it all to go away. “Even just…a great roommate and best friends and something to do. That’s what living is for.”

The bottle starts to slide down from Kuroo’s hand.

“I want you to go back to where you were before,” Kenma says. “I believe everyone when they tell me that you used to be a good person—and trust me when I tell you that they all did. Every one of them who have been here with you from the start. I want to believe that that’s who you are because I’ve seen good things from you. You care about your team more than anything, and you’ve fixed how you are with Hinata, who, by the way, respects you hugely despite what you did to him. Ennoshita sees you as special, and sees the restaurant as a dream that you shared. When I talked to Iwaizumi, a part of me felt that a part of him loves you, in whatever way that is for him. I believe all of us do, including me.”

Kuroo’s eye widens, glimmering in the light.

Kenma thinks about what he said, and this time, he’s the one who looks away. He says, “Or, all of them,” but it hardly comes out loud enough for even himself to hear.

Yaku’s voice: _I think you’re a shitty liar._

He closes his eyes. “You have worth, Tetsurou. You have value. We all do. We’re humans.” He breathes in and sighs out again, looking back into Kuroo’s face. “So stop being so reactive and change things. What’s in _here_.” He points to his temple. “That’s what matters.”

Kuroo’s hand comes up to his chest again, clutching this time, and Kenma hears Yuuji from that night: _You can break hearts with that hold of yours._

They both lower their hands.

“Just…” Kenma says, “get a grip, and let go. Strive forward.”

The bottle hits the floor and startles Kuroo badly. He takes a sharp breath and his shoulders tense up.

“Everything else…” Kenma trails off, watching the splash of alcohol spread out into a thin amber puddle on the hardwood. “I have nothing left for you. I’ve shown you what I have. If you can’t see it, that’s not my problem anymore. I’m too tired now.”

“Kenma?” Kuroo croaks.

“So, one more thing, Chef.”

Kuroo winces.

It’s petty, using Kuroo’s title instead of his name, disregarding with one word any intimacy they might have built together, but it came out anyway.

_No more_.

“Yesterday was my last night at Tiger’s Eye.”

A violent look of panic pools in Kuroo’s iris. “No. No, don’t leave because of me.”

“I’m not leaving because of you,” Kenma says. He had these words prepared. After only a month of knowing him, Kuroo is very predictable. “I’m doing this because it’s my decision to make.”

The flush on Kuroo’s cheeks deepens, and his eye starts reflecting a bright slash of light suspended in the water that sits above his lower lid, threatening him. He swallows and says, “I know. I know. But don’t. What can I say? What can I tell you?”

“Nothing,” Kenma says calmly. “It’s all worked out with Akaashi. I called him last night. He said that this is around the time most people leave anyway. That I actually managed to last just a little bit longer.”

All Kuroo is able to say is, “But I can’t have this happen again. I can’t…”

“Fortunately,” Kenma says, “it’s not up to you.” He straightens his shoulders and breathes, holds his hands behind his back, and looks up at Kuroo as if they weren’t in his house, and he wasn’t in plain clothes, and they never slept together or held each other or kissed each other or told each other where they went to school or confided about themselves or ever did anything beyond those brief moments during service when Kenma could just say, _Yes, Chef._ He looks at him as if Kuroo Tetsurou is his executive, his boss, and nothing more. “I’ll be saying goodbye to everyone during prep tomorrow. Feel free to be on time or not.”

“Stop it,” Kuroo says quickly. “Don’t pretend like that.”

Kenma sighs. “It’s all I have left that I can do.” He bows. When he stands, he says, “I’ve—” but his voice catches, as if some part of him doesn’t want to say any of this. He tries again. “I’ve appreciated working with you.”

He turns on his heel and the door to leave comes into view.

…

Kuroo watches the door close, shutting him in alone.

_You’re making us all look like fools._

Kenma tried to tell him before; Kei shouldn’t have had to say it to him again. Kenma told him that acting the way he did in the restaurant brought everyone else down with him, but he didn’t listen. He isn’t only hurting their work, but their pride, too. How foolish they must seem to outsiders for remaining in his restaurant. Maybe all the boys he chased out—who cut their losses and ran away—were the smart ones after all.

He looks down at the empty bottle on the floor, the puddle of spilled liquid.

_We’ve slept together._

_Does that actually mean anything to you?_

“It does if it’s you,” he breathes.

The jealousy and inadequacy he felt when Kenma described his date with Terushima cuts into his chest like a freshly-whetted knife. He doesn’t treat Kenma like that. If anyone asked Kenma about him, Kenma wouldn’t be able to say such kind things because Kuroo has never given him the opportunity to think them in the first place.

He brings a trembling hand to his pocket to find his phone.

_I’m not leaving because of you. I’m doing this because it’s my decision to make._

It’s exactly what Daichi said when he left. Kuroo is the kind of person who makes the same mistakes over and over again.

He finds Bokuto’s name and taps it. He brings the phone up to his ear and listens to it ringing.

_He said that this is around the time most people leave anyway. That I actually managed to last just a little bit longer._

It’s not like that. Kenma was never just another random hire. Not after that second night when Kenma looked him in the eye and stood up for himself and everyone else. _You’re not faceless_.

He couldn’t say how he really feels. If he bows out now, if he stops reaching, maybe failure isn’t his fault.

He is weak.

Bokuto doesn’t pick up.

…

Tendou is staring at him when he walks back into their apartment. “What?” he asks.

Tendou, paused kneeling over the kotatsu that he’s wiping down, says up to him, “I’m sensing it.”

He made it all the way back here—down half of the hill on foot and the other in a car, through the hazy city and up the stairs and in the door—all without letting it go. He’s not going to do it now. “I don’t want to cry again.”

Tendou sets down the wipes, takes off his cleaning gloves. He stands and says, “Then don’t.” He puts his arms out.

Kenma goes to him and hugs him tight. “I really don’t want to.” He puts his face in Tendou’s chest. He wishes Lev and Yaku were here too, and he hopes that they’ll forgive him for keeping secrets. Hopes that everyone at Tiger’s Eye tomorrow will still accept him even when he’s walking out on everything they hoped he could do.

“Hey. It’s okay.” Tendou pats his head. “Is it over?”

His voice is muffled against Tendou’s ribs. “I’m so stupid, Tendou.”

“I know that’s not true.”

“This time I really was,” Kenma says. He draws in a long breath of Tendou’s perpetual smell: lemon, clean linen, and laboratory ash. “I made such a mistake.”

“Breaking up or applying?” Tendou asks.

But Kenma can’t answer.

“It’s okay,” Tendou says again. Kenma feels his chin come to rest on the top of his head and the movement of Tendou’s jaw when he says, “Sometimes the only way to get someone past a heartbreak is to break it even more.”

* * *

**HC: Daichi currently works as a municipal police officer of community safety in Tokyo. He has no online presence. He has an apartment to himself, and on Saturdays he wakes up at dawn and has coffee with the older gentleman who lives next to him as they sit on their adjacent balconies to watch the city awaken. He thinks about Kuroo often, but for him, they are only memories and nothing more. He is single.**


	27. requiem for a burning house

The sun beams down on Kenma as he comes upon the front façade of Tiger’s Eye. He passes the side of the office building and the front doors come into view, the insignia on and above them, muted yellow, orange, and red in the light. He turns to take the sidewalk around back like he always does, past the employee parking lot where the only car he doesn’t see is Kuroo’s. He walks up to door number two.

When he reaches for the handle, he’s nearly startled to see the grey sleeve of his shirt. His mind jumps immediately to _I’m not in uniform. Akaashi will—_

He pauses, taking a breath. Turns the handle and steps into the back hallway.

At 2:48 p.m. ( _I’m late. Ennoshita will—_ ) everybody else is already here and in the middle of prep. He expects the usual chatter in the kitchen from the chefs, the clinking of silver from the house as Hinata puts down a freshly-shined spoon and Noya ruffles his hair behind him and Ennoshita makes one of his dry wit comments. But nobody is talking when he opens the door, and the only significant sound is the vacuum up by the front doors until Akaashi looks up and switches it off.

He meets Yuuji’s eyes first, at the same place where Kenma always passes his station to get to the house. Yuuji smiles at him. “Hey, guys, Kenma’s here.”

Bokuto whistles. “Let’s bring it around the pass.”

Kenma’s feet take him there naturally, filling in his place in their usual circle they make, as if it’s a normal Friday pre-service debriefing. Except, this time, all of the chefs are in the house too, forgoing keeping the pass between them. Even Kageyama and Iwaizumi. Even Tsukishima, furthest to the side with his eyes averted to the floor.

Everybody but Kuroo.

Kenma can’t think of anything to say.

Bokuto starts with a gentle, “Hey, kid.”

“Akaashi-san told us when we all got here,” Hinata says. His eyes are bright and shining, glassy, and it’s hard for Kenma to bear.

He takes a breath and says, “I’m sorry about everything.”

“Don’t be,” Iwaizumi says, leaning back against the pass with his arms crossed over his chest. It makes Kenma’s throat feel tight.

Ennoshita’s hand finds his shoulder. “I think you might be the only sane one out of all of us, anyway.” He smiles.

At his words, Tsukishima adjusts his glasses, and Kageyama pushes his hair back and nods a little as it falls back into place over his forehead.

“And I think we owe _you_ an apology,” Akaashi says.

But Kenma shakes his head. “No, you don’t. Let’s not talk about that. I came here and I stayed here because…” He tries to smile. “It was fun. Being here with you all made me feel like I was doing something good every day.”

“You were,” Noya says, nudging his side. His hair is held back in one of Asahi’s thin headbands with his blonde tuft out, just like it was on Kenma’s first night here. “You gonna stay in the industry or what?”

Kenma glances at Yuuji, who props his foot up against the wall of the pass and smiles just enough for Kenma to see. “Yeah,” Kenma says. “I’ll get it figured out.”

“We wanted to throw a going-away party for you,” Yuuji says, tilting his head. “Noya even had the perfect champagne ready and everything.”

“It’s a demi sec from Argentina,” Noya sighs. “I was even gonna let you pop it.”

Kenma laughs once. “Mm. I’d rather you perform a service for me.”

Noya blinks up at him, then frowns at the floor and shoves his hands in his pockets. “Why did he have to make you leave.”

“We’re going to get too emotional if we keep this up,” Ennoshita says. He wraps his arm around Kenma’s shoulders and pulls him into a side hug, patting his arm. Kenma deadpans. Ennoshita chuckles and says, “We’ll see you around, all right? I bet we could get Kiyoko to hook you up with a reservation here. Maybe not for the chef’s table.”

“No need to ask Kiyoko,” Akaashi says evenly.

Kenma just pushes Ennoshita away and shakes his head. “I’ll be elsewhere unless—” He cuts off. He looks down and back up. “Well, I’ll be elsewhere.”

“Keep in touch, kid,” Bokuto says. “We need to get back to work, everyone.” He gives Kenma a wink and starts back around the pass. Iwaizumi and Kageyama follow suit.

“I’ll perform a service for you one day. I swear on my own life,” Noya insists.

Kenma laughs and bows his head to him.

“Text me on a Thursday, Kenma-san,” Hinata says. His eyes are still watery, so Kenma puts a fist out and Hinata bumps it.

“I will.”

Akaashi gives them a glance, then turns back to the vacuum at the front of the house.

“Come on, Shouyou,” Ennoshita says, putting his hand on Hinata’s head. “The tables aren’t gonna clean themselves.” He turns Hinata away, looks back, and gives Kenma a finger gun.

Kenma turns to face the pass. Tsukishima is still standing in his same spot. He opens his mouth as if he’ll say something, but decides not to. He bows his head.

Kenma bows back a little lower.

When Tsukishima has passed between them and gone back around the wall, Yuuji pushes up and steps toward him with his arms out. Kenma hugs him back around his middle. It doesn’t matter if they’re in the restaurant in front of everyone, or if it’s unprofessional. He doesn’t work here anymore. He won’t be back again.

“Hey,” Yuuji says quietly. “You got the other position, right? I made sure to call and get in a recommendation for—”

“I did, Yuuji. I can’t thank you enough. Really.”

Yuuji gives him a squeeze. “Okay. Sick.” They laugh and he pulls back, looking down into Kenma’s face. “You know that if you ever need anything…”

Kenma nods, watching his piercing glint in the soft yellow light of the fixtures above each table. “Thank you.”

The back door swings open. Kuroo walks in, catching his foot on the floor and stumbling once. He kicks the door closed behind him and keeps his hands in his pockets, his jacket hooked over his wrist, his hair in his face. He glances at the two of them, then walks through the kitchen and disappears.

Yuuji narrows his eyes. “I can’t believe…”

Kenma looks at the empty, dark entrance to the back hallway, the pantry, cold storage. The room where the gloves that mold perfectly to his hands sit useless in a basket of unidentical others. So many things happened back there in the past month. Does any of it matter? “It’s okay,” he says. “I had no expectations.”

Yuuji looks around, catching Ennoshita and Bokuto’s attention. “Let’s get you out of here,” he says. He leads Kenma back toward the exit, and Bokuto and Ennoshita come over for the three of them to walk Kenma out of door number two for the final time.

They step outside and the door shuts behind them. Bokuto pushes his hair back from his face, squinting in the sun, and says, “Like I said—keep in touch. Keiji feels pretty bad about all this.”

“I’ll call you in a couple of days and tell you how things are going,” Kenma promises.

Ennoshita suddenly hugs him again, swaying him back and forth. “Ahh, you’re such a good kid.”

“Please let go of me, Ennoshita-san.”

Ennoshita sighs and releases him. “All right, go home. Get some rest before you go to wherever it is you two have planned for your new job tomorrow.”

Kenma glances at Yuuji again, and Yuuji just does his easy smile at Ennoshita. “I’d offer to drive you,” he says to Kenma.

Kenma shakes his head, looking up at all of them. “It’s okay. This time, I can actually take the train.”

When Kenma is eventually out of their sight, Bokuto claps Yuuji on the back. “You two went out once, right?”

Yuuji nods, looking out at the last place Kenma was before he was gone. “He’s a really great person.”

“You don’t need to tell me, dude.”

“This is such a loss on our end,” Ennoshita sighs, brushing at his hair.

Yuuji looks down at the sidewalk. “I just wish we could have done better by him.”

Bokuto says, “Hey. It’s only Friday.”

“You never know what might happen,” Ennoshita adds.

Yuuji thinks about the things Akaashi said to him when he called him into his office a week ago. _Sorry to ask you, Yuuji, but I think you’re the only one I can._

“The best way to get him back up,” Bokuto says, crossing his arms and tilting his head toward the restaurant, “is to kick him even harder while he’s still down.”

Yuuji turns to look at the two of them. They just look back at him with these little smiles. He laughs, runs his hand over his hair, and says, “You two are extremely unsettling.”

Bokuto pats his back again. “Known Kuroo for ages.”

“And he hired me first,” Ennoshita says.

Yuuji shakes his head and opens the door for them to go back inside. “You’ll never let that go, will you?”

They walk past him and back into the restaurant. Yuuji glances over his shoulder to where Kenma walked away one more time.

Nobody talks to Kuroo during prep, and he doesn’t talk to them either.

At the end of their debriefing, Akaashi lowers his papers and says, “That will be all for tonight until closing.”

They all give him a firm, “Yes, sir.”

Kuroo mutters, “Let’s get this over with,” and turns away into the kitchen. 

Bokuto looks at Akaashi, then sighs at Kuroo and says, “You’re a real jackass, you know that, man?”

Kuroo turns his visible eye on him in a sharp glare. “I hope you can get it through your head that not everything can work out perfectly like it does for you.”

“Stop it, Tetsurou,” Akaashi says.

Hinata draws in a breath. Kuroo looks at him. “You gonna cry?”

“Whoa,” Ennoshita says, sending him a look: _Don’t go there_.

“That is enough.” Akaashi points past Kuroo to the kitchen: _Turn around now._

Iwaizumi puts his hand on Kuroo’s shoulder.

Kuroo just turns and shakes him off. He glances at Tsukishima, then looks away. “Just open the goddamned doors.”

…

“You’ll get good at it pretty fast,” Tendou says. He finishes the knot in Kenma’s tie, sliding it up snugly around his neck. “If you end up wearing this uniform more than a few times, anyway,” he mutters. Kenma shoots him a squint, but Tendou just steps back and regards him with his hands on his hips. “Looking snazzy. Good luck—first night.”

Grey pants, well-fitted to his waist and legs, with a white shirt and matching grey vest. The vest feels strange—extraneous—but he’ll get used to it eventually. He wonders if he’ll have a pair of gloves to wear, what color they’ll be. The tie is light blue.

“I feel like I’ve been doing this my whole life,” he says.

Tendou nods. “I can imagine. Working on a Saturday is nuts. I don’t know how the three of you do it.”

They got on the chat with Lev and Yaku again last night before their shifts. Kenma told them everything, starting from his night out with Yuuji and ending with his train ride home from Tiger’s Eye yesterday afternoon. It got to the point where they had to actually stop their game, and though he could hear a bit of the pity in Yaku’s voice, he was still appreciative of everything they said to him. They always have been encouraging, and they always will be. When Yaku told Kenma he was proud of him for making this decision, Kenma wasn’t sure if it felt good or not.

They’re excited for him to start at his new restaurant today. Lev searched it on his phone while they were talking, and Yaku, after reading reviews and looking at the website, says he approves.

“So,” Tendou says. “I’m going to the condo with Waka, but our reservation tomorrow is at eight-thirty. I’ll see you then, yeah?”

Kenma nods. “Mm. Okay.”

“You want some tea for the road? It’s further away in the ward, right?”

“Not by that much,” Kenma says. “Thank you.”

“Are you sure? Last chance before I’m with Waka for seven days.” He wiggles his eyebrows.

Not having Tendou’s freshly-steeped chamomile for a week will be despairing, but he gave Kenma a box of tea bags as a congratulatory present— _For getting the new job. Not for dumping the exec. Promise._

Kenma nods again. “I’ll be fine.”

“Yeah, you will.” He picks up Kenma’s keys from the counter and hands them to him, then turns him by his shoulders toward the door and taps him on the butt before he moves toward the kitchen. “Get it going now. Wouldn’t want to be late.”

Kenma pauses. “Hey, Tendou?” He looks over his shoulder at Tendou stretching his arms up.

Tendou bends backwards to look at him. “Hmm?”

“Don’t ever do that again.”

The façade is grey stone striated with white, glass doors and landscape windows only tinted enough to block the sun, but that still allow outsiders to look in on the dining area. On the doors in thin English cursive, and in the same font in a white sign backlit in a soft sky-like shade is the word _Blue._

As he’s about to turn to go around the side of the building, he sees a tall figure moving through the house to open the front door. He holds it open, wearing a blindingly white chef’s uniform. “Hey, you must be Kenma,” he says. “I’m Yuuji’s friend, Issei. You can come on in the front.”

Kenma bows and goes to him. “Kozume Kenma. Nice to meet you.”

“You too, man. Yuuji’s got a lot of good things to say about you. Chef’s looking forward to meeting you.” He tilts his head and starts to lead Kenma through the house.

It’s completely different, a color opposite to Tiger’s Eye: greys and whites, soft lights in the same color as the backlighting for the sign outside, wooden chairs, a tiled wall surrounding the kitchen and the opening to the pass in translucent shades of blue, and all the windows letting sunlight in. It’s bigger, and calming in an airy, easy way that lets Kenma feel like he isn’t in an enclosed space. A few more servers working around the house turn to give him a smile and a bow in greeting.

“Yahaba, Hiro,” Issei calls out.

Kenma looks at the kitchen—also bigger than at Tiger’s Eye, and with more chefs and stations. There must be about ten of them.

Two more men come out from the back toward him and Issei. Something Yuuji said flashes into Kenma’s mind: _This pink-haired guy I think he was trying to score, and then I think the_ maître D’ _was there._

“Yahaba Shigeru,” the one in the full suit says, bowing a little. “I’m the _maître D’_ , I’ll be showing you around. And Makki is our head server who you’ll be working with tonight.” Pink hair, in the same server uniform, gives Kenma a casual smile and a lift of the hand. “Since you’re experienced with Tiger’s Eye,” Yahaba says, “we don’t expect you’ll need more than a night of direction, but don’t hesitate to ask us anything if you need to. We’re open ears here.”

Nothing about this is a test, Kenma realizes. This is simply a job.

“Thank you,” he says.

“I hear you escaped with your chin held high,” a voice says.

Kenma looks into the kitchen where another chef is walking out from the back with better posture than even Hinata. He sweeps his bangs to the side and back as he comes over with commanding steps toward them.

“After that review—” he whistles, “I can’t even imagine. He’s got some scrambling to do, huh? Taking two hits in a row with you leaving.” He smiles. “Oikawa Tooru. Very pleased to make your acquaintance.” He offers his hand.

Right—the executive chef. The one who got his third star two months sooner and is in no danger of losing it any time soon. “Thank you for having me.” He puts his hand out to return the shake.

Oikawa grasps it in both of his palms and gives it a firm squeeze. “Lovely. Let’s jump into the kitchen and get you acquainted with everyone.” He waves Kenma and the three Blue employees after him, clapping his hands. “Put it on pause, everyone. Let’s bring it together.”

Kenma doesn’t feel even the slightest bit of anxiety as he steps into the kitchen and every chef and multiple servers appearing from around the restaurant all turn to look at him.

“Let’s give a nice Blue welcome to our new server,” Oikawa says. He puts a hand out to Kenma.

“Kozume Kenma,” he says, bowing his head. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“Welcome in,” they all say at the same time. “We look forward to working with you.”

Every one of them bows deeply.

* * *

**HC: Matsukawa joined Blue four months after he left Misaki Hana’s kitchen at Licht. His friend had left for Tiger’s Eye, and he was looking for a change of pace. When he arrived for his interview, he happened to see one of his old middle school crushes, grown up well and waiting his turn.**

**“So you became a chef, too?” he asked, taking the seat next to him.**

**“Server,” Hanamaki said, kicking back in his chair and grinning at him. “Long time no see.”**

**Blue are currently known as the “greatest team” among the few three-star Tokyo locations. Though his kitchen is considerably larger than Tiger’s Eye’s, Founding Executive Chef Oikawa Tooru leads a tight-knit group and has been said to “cook from scratch”—or, take in new workers with relatively little experience in whom he sees promise and potential, teach them what he knows, bring out their best individual and unique qualities, and encourage them enthusiastically when they want to branch out to other kitchens. Still, he has a close group of five who have been with him from the start: _rotisseur_ Matsukawa Issei, _pâtissier_ Watari Shinji, sous chef Kunimi Akira, _maître D’_ Yahaba Shigeru, and head server Hanamaki Takahiro. Their latest hire aside from Kenma is a server named Kyoutani Kentarou, who is still learning the ropes with extra help from the _maître D’._**


	28. 호랑이에게 물려가도 정신만 차리면 산다.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _horangiege mullyeogado jeongshinman charimyeon sanda._

The weekend without Kenma takes its toll on the house, but even more so on the kitchen.

Saturday’s service and half of Sunday’s have been riddled with bursts of anger, stinging comments, barked orders, and wasted food. And because they don’t know what else to do—haven’t known since this all started eleven months ago—the servers assure the patrons at every turn that things are quite all right, and the chefs take the hits and defer to Kuroo in any instance regardless of the circumstance.

At ten o’clock during full house on Sunday night, Kuroo watches as Kei lifts a plate up to the pass for Hinata to take to his table of two, saying, “Serv—”

He takes it from Kei’s hand. “Did you want to let me have a look at this before you send it out?”

Kei just looks back at him through his lenses. “I’m a capable expediter, Chef. You’ve trusted me before.”

Hinata keeps his mouth shut and averts his eyes.

“Before isn’t now,” Kuroo shoots back.

_It has to be perfect._

“Oh, we know that much,” Bokuto mutters under his breath.

Kuroo turns to him. “Excuse me?”

“Nothing, Chef,” Bokuto says, not even bothering to look up. “Sorry, Chef.”

_It has to be absolutely perfect or else I’ll lose everything. I’ll lose control like I lost him._

He won’t talk about it any longer. They’ll all just do what he says, and that’s how it will be. This is his restaurant; _he_ is the executive chef. Every mistake made here, no matter how small, is all his fault. Everything always is.

“You,” he says, “can start this over.” He tosses the plate over to Bokuto’s station where it splatters orzo, mushrooms, and gelatinous soy sauce out onto the countertop and Bokuto’s stove. It sizzles on the burner and begins to blacken.

Bokuto stares down at it. He sets his knife on the counter and squeezes his hand into a fist.

Ennoshita steps up beside Hinata, frowning at the scene over the pass. “What’s going on?”

Hinata just shakes his head.

“And you.” Kuroo tilts his chin at Terushima. “Both of you. You have four minutes.”

_If we get it out that quickly, we can still please the customer. You’ll all still look like good chefs even though you’re standing near me. I can still keep the star._

“I literally cannot make it cook that quickly, Chef,” Bokuto says.

Kuroo narrows his eye at him. “Figure it out.”

Bokuto turns to face him. “You’re being an ass.”

_I’m…_

It all turns into anger. _Just like he said it does._ “Am I? I’m sorry, I thought _I_ was the executive—”

At the back of the kitchen near his station, Kageyama throws down a towel.

Kuroo stops, looking over at his youngest chef. His heart does a strange beat in his chest, nauseating and crawling up into the back of his throat.

Kageyama stands there with his keen eyes turned on him, sending a glare through the ends of his bangs. His prodigy _pâtissier_ —grace under pressure, natural calm, boundless composure, and infinitely steady hands, who worked in a café starting at just fourteen years old—points a finger at him and loses his cool. “You need to stop taking your self-pity out on the rest of us. I’m tired of being unhappy here. I want to love this again. Kenma is not the only person who will leave this kitchen because of your refusal to change back. Chef.”

Something in Kuroo’s stomach drops heavily. In the corner of his eye, he can see Bokuto staring at him.

Kageyama looks at Kei. “Give me three.”

“Take six,” Kei says.

Kageyama disappears into the back hallway.

Behind him over the pass, Kuroo hears Ennoshita say, “Go ahead. We’ll cover you.” Hinata appears around the open wall and follows Kageyama through the kitchen into the dim.

All four of Kuroo’s other chefs and his head server are just standing there looking at him. Noya must be eyeing him from his counter, and Akaashi must be watching from somewhere in the house. He can feel them all staring—every set of eyes on him from those who work for him and those who are here sitting at tables waiting to eat his food. It feels like hundreds of claws pricking hot all over his body.

“Way to go, dude,” Bokuto says. He takes his towel out of his apron at his waist and brushes burnt orzo from his stovetop.

Kuroo blinks at him.

“He’ll come back,” Terushima says, “but you’ve got to give him a second. He’s been really frustrated with you lately.”

“He has?” Kuroo asks lamely. Bokuto shakes his head.

“Are you done?” Kei says. “With all of this?”

Kuroo swallows. “I won’t fight, Bo.”

“He’s not talking about this one fight,” Bokuto says back. “He isn’t talking about just this service.”

Kuroo can’t find a reply.

In the quiet, Iwaizumi looks directly at him and says, “ _You_ figure it out, Kuroo. If you shut yourself in this tightly, you won’t be able to breathe anymore.” He shakes his head, turns back to his station, and says to himself, “ _C’est dommage._ ”

“Tsukishima,” Terushima says.

Kuroo stands there motionless, listening.

“Can you lose another for less than five?”

Kei closes his eyes, pushes up his glasses, and sighs. “Hajime, Bokuto?”

The two of them nod. “Yes, Chef.”

Kuroo watches Kei move past Bokuto, patting him on the shoulder, and over to Terushima’s station. “Be quick.” He looks at Kuroo. “Listen for once. Really listen.”

Kuroo swallows again. Suddenly his mouth is bone dry. “What?”

Terushima meets his gaze and tilts his head. “Let’s talk, Chef.”

He ends up following Terushima into the hallway around the side of the kitchen, over to the cubbies by the back exit. They pass into the dark, away from all the noise, until he can only hear a quiet house and a kitchen of three voices communicating well with each other even in the absence of their executive. If he listens closely, he thinks he can hear Kageyama’s frustration, Bokuto’s hurt feelings, Akaashi’s disappointment.

Terushima turns around to face him with his arms crossed casually. “Is it hitting you yet?”

“Is what?” Kuroo asks. His heart hasn’t beat this heavily in a long time.

“The realization that he’s really gone,” Terushima tells him. “Of how badly you’ve messed up this time.”

Kuroo feels his lips part, but all the air is gone from his lungs. It left when Kageyama threw the towel onto the kitchen floor.

“Akaashi pulled me into his office last week,” Terushima says, tilting his head. As he talks, his piercing catches light from the kitchen and house. “He told me—in the case that something went wrong because of your relationship with Kenma developing, because of whatever happened between the two of you—that when you finally crack, I should be the one to step in.” He shakes his head, brows pulling together. “It was as if he knew something would happen, and that it would be soon.”

Kuroo hears Bokuto saying, _He’s pretty clairvoyant._

It’s not that. Akaashi is just extremely skilled at reading people. He just knows Kuroo far too well.

“Akaashi didn’t trust himself or Bokuto to say enough to you,” Terushima says, “and he felt that I’d be the next best bet. He probably wanted me to give you a stern talking to.” He chuckles. “Or maybe he knew that I can’t. Maybe that’s why he picked me.” He sighs and pushes his hair back. “I finally understand what it’s been like for Kenma this whole time. Having the pressure of keeping you in check weighing on his shoulders. I’ve been waiting for this to happen since Akaashi’s request, waiting for the other shoe to drop, because for some reason you are now, at least for this moment, my responsibility.”

Kuroo stares at him. When he hired Terushima, he didn’t mind his style and saw a quality personality in him alongside his evident skill in the kitchen. He’s always been the chill guy, the one who keeps the kitchen relaxed while Bokuto keeps them smiling. Kuroo never knew Terushima had this kind of maturity in him. The way he speaks, stands, carries himself and his expression, and wears his uniform presents him as someone fully aware of himself and others.

Maybe that’s why Kenma enjoyed their date so much. Terushima acts like an adult.

“I feel like it’ll help you if you take a look at everything you’ve lost,” Terushima says, “and everything you’ve gained. Appreciate all of those things as they were and are a part of your life. The time you’ve spent and the things you’ve given up to have this restaurant are equally as important as everything you’ve achieved here, materially or otherwise. The events that led up to this moment in time have not been wasted.” He crosses his arms again. “Not unless, with your actions and your current emotional ineptitude, you choose to waste them.”

Kenma’s voice, irritated with him and on the verge of resigning himself to Kuroo’s inadequacy: _You take everything you feel and channel it into just being mad because you don’t know how else to deal with anything._

Kenma can at least understand Kuroo’s emotions. So can Akaashi and Bokuto, two of the most emotionally adept people he knows. And so can Terushima, and probably everybody else in this restaurant but him.

He isn’t mad at his team—he’s mad at himself. And sad, and scared. But it’s about time that he figures it out or else everything really will slip away from him. Everything up until now will have been for nothing.

“Do you get it?” Terushima asks.

“I…” he swallows, “think I understand.”

Terushima nods. “Life goes how it goes. Some things can’t be controlled, but some definitely can. You just have to promise yourself a little effort.”

Promise…himself?

“So just get a grip on stuff, man.”

_Just…get a grip, and let go. Strive forward_.

Losing a love was—even more than finishing his culinary program or building a restaurant from the ground up—the hardest thing he had ever done. But losing a second is even harder, because he made creating it more difficult than it ever should have been.

He has to move on. He got the third star for Daichi, and that was his final service to the lover he pushed away, who maybe never could have fit in his life the way it is. In the end, they couldn’t look out on the world in the same direction, because they just weren’t on the same path.

The star was the last thing Kuroo had to do for him, and now he has to fix everything he’s done since then, for Kenma. If he doesn’t strive forward, he doesn’t even get the choice to give up because he has already failed.

He _will_ move on. It’s time to let the past go, starting tonight. He would be lucky if Kenma even considered taking him back or stepping foot in this restaurant again.

“Chef?”

He looks up at Terushima. “What?”

“Don’t…” Terushima makes a bewildered face. “Don’t cry.”

Kuroo feels a drop slide down to his chin and fall to the hallway floor. He blinks, turning his face to the side. “Sorry. I haven’t cried since…” He wipes under his eyes and shakes his head quickly.

When he looks back at his _saucier_ , Terushima’s face shows only compassion. Even though he took Kenma on a date, and even with what was unknown competition between the two of them, it’s as though Terushima doesn’t even see it that way. He wants Kenma’s happiness, and it looks like he wants Kuroo’s, too.

The compassion spears into Kuroo’s heart. He suddenly realizes that he’s seen it before on Kenma’s face so many times, and on Akaashi’s, and Bokuto’s, and Kei’s. Maybe everybody. Very few of them knew why he turned into what he did because he continued to lie and to hide things from them, and they all still cared regardless.

The realization of this doesn’t help the tears.

Terushima smiles easily at him, shaking his head. “I guess let it out then.” He pats Kuroo on the arm. “Whatever happened back then, it’s over now. Don’t worry too much about it anymore. You need to forgive yourself, too.”

Kuroo wipes his eyes again and forces himself to stop. “I don’t know what to say.”

“It’s not me you need to be talking to,” Terushima tells him. “You’re a good guy. We all know that. We’ve known you for three years, haven’t we? You can’t fool us that easy.” He laughs softly. “Focus on the things you _can_ change, from now.”

Kuroo only looks at him.

Terushima just smiles back and starts past him to the kitchen again. He looks over his shoulder. “I’m going to head back to the guys. What are you gonna do?” He grins before facing forward again and hustling back to his station, calling out, “Returning, Chef!”

Kuroo stands alone in the hallway. He shoves his fingers at his eyes one more time, feeling the tickle of his bangs against the back of his right hand.

He moves back to the kitchen.

He reaches the entrance at the same moment that Kageyama and Hinata appear in the threshold of the back hall. He looks into the eyes of each of his chefs as he puts his hand on the wall. “I have to—”

“We can handle it, Tetsurou,” Kei says. “Just make it back in time for closing.”

“I’m expecting the real you to walk through those doors when you come back,” Bokuto tells him. “Haven’t seen him in almost a year.”

Kuroo opens his mouth to answer, but he ends up only nodding.

Kei brings his voice to a respectable command. “Everyone back to your stations. I’ll be at the pass and can cover anything if you need help. Kageyama, are you doing okay?”

“I am, Chef,” Kageyama replies. “Apologies for stepping out.”

Bokuto smacks him hard on the back as he returns to his station. “Don’t apologize, kid.”

“Hajime, let’s get that Kobe out as soon as we can,” Tsukishima says. “Bokuto and Terushima, are you good in ten on that restart?”

“ _Yes, Chef_.”

Kuroo is still standing there until Terushima looks at him and says, “Chef. Go.”

He releases the wall and starts out through the house. As he passes Noya’s wine counter, Noya winks at him: _Go get ‘em._ He catches Akaashi’s gaze, and Akaashi discreetly twirls a gloved finger forward: _Quickly, Tetsurou._

He turns to the front doors and all of the patrons’ eyes are on him as he pushes his way out into the lights of late-night Tokyo.

The _maître D’_ holds the front door open for him as he approaches. “That was quick.”

“Not quick enough,” Kuroo says. “Does _that_ guy know I’m coming?”

Yahaba smiles at him. “It’s his restaurant, Kuroo-san. He knows everything.”

Kuroo grumbles and gives him a quick bow of the head as he goes through the entrance into Blue. “Thanks.”

“Uh-huh.”

He moves through the house, going by tables of people staring wide-eyed up at the intruder in black and red. He passes a table of two, and one of the men there, with even redder hair styled up from his face like Bokuto used to do back in high school, gives him a wide, curling grin. He almost flinches, bows, and mutters, “Excuse me.”

“Tiger-chan!”

Kuroo stops near the pass, closing his eyes and rubbing a hand over his forehead.

“To whom do I owe the pleasure?” Oikawa says, gliding over to him. “Oh, wait.” He knocks his hand against his head. “I know who.”

“Just let me talk to him, Oikawa.” He’s too warm from walking here so quickly in his chef’s jacket—getting a car would have been useless—and he can feel his eyebrow twitch at the grating sound of his rival’s voice, that cheery smile that belies the perceptive, calculating look in his eyes. He never changes.

Oikawa leans over the pass toward him, propping on his elbow with his chin in his hand. “You know, I hear your _rotisseur_ is still the finest cut on the strip.” He tilts his head and grins, eyes closing. “Get it? Steak puns because he’s a meat chef?”

“I see you’re still running a professional operation here,” Kuroo says back.

“Why don’t you ask those two months, huh?” Oikawa pulls an eyelid down and sticks out the tip of his tongue.

Kuroo sighs heavily, biting his tongue. “I’m just here for Kenma.”

Oikawa crosses his arms on the pass. “Tell you what—maybe we can make a trade.”

“Neither my _rotisseur_ nor _my_ server are dispensable to you.”

Oikawa rolls his eyes. “Jesus, you’re such a drag. He’s in the house somewhere, I don’t know,” he says, waving his hand. “He’s so good I haven’t had to bother keeping watch over him.” He scans his restaurant then motions absently over Kuroo’s shoulder. “Look, here he comes with Makki.”

Kuroo turns around. Kenma and another server are approaching the kitchen, empty platters in hand. Kenma notices him there and their eyes meet, but as Makki moves past Kuroo to receive another table’s dishes, Kenma turns away and continues through the kitchen into the back.

Oikawa’s lilting voice comes from right next to his ear, over the pass, startling him. “Just don’t touch my kitchen or my staff. Maybe your wandering paw is getting tamed, hmm?”

Kuroo makes a point not to turn his head to look at him. He swallows whatever words want to come up and retort.

Oikawa says, “I’ll let my favorite nemesis back there if he agrees to give me his _rotisseur_ ’s number.”

Kuroo says, “No promises,” and makes his way around the pass and through the kitchen to follow Kenma.

Behind him, Oikawa’s voice raises to reach his team. “Shinji, time?”

“Two minutes, Chef.”

“Good. Yuutarou, let’s get the veal out like magic, all right? Three months has done wonders on you here. You’ve got the lobster ready for your table, Kyouken—service on that. Issei, it’s a good thing I know ogling Makki makes you cook like a god. Akira, stay at the pass and expedite while I keep an eye out for disaster. I’m trusting you all.”

“ _Yes, Chef!_ ”

Kuroo tells himself he doesn’t feel the smallest pang of envy at Oikawa’s social capability as he turns into the threshold of Blue’s pantry.

When he rounds the wall, Kenma comes into view, his back turned, lifting up onto his tiptoes as he’s about to reach up to a shelf for some ingredient.

“Kenma.”

Kenma turns from the shelf to look at him over his shoulder. “What are you doing here, Tetsurou.”

_You called me by my name._

“I came to talk to you.”

Kenma sighs and lowers back down to his heels. He faces Kuroo fully. “You’ve abandoned your kitchen for this.”

“My chefs will do just fine without me,” Kuroo says. He looks sideways and down. “Considering how I’ve been acting for the past eleven months, maybe even better.” He takes a breath, steeling himself, reminding himself why he’s here. He looks back into Kenma’s eyes. “They wanted me to come here. They want me to get better and so do I.”

Kenma watches him from across the room, his calm face and his bright eyes. “I don’t want to argue with you.”

“Neither do I. In fact.” He steps closer, enough to show he’s serious but not too close, keeping enough distance between them that Kenma won’t want to leave any more than he might already. Enough that Kenma won’t think he’s trying any of the things he’s tried before. “You don’t even have to respond to me if you don’t want to,” he says. “I just hope you’ll listen to what I have to say.”

“Have you figured it out?” Kenma asks him.

_Is it hitting you yet?_

“Yes,” he responds seriously. “I have. It’s not that I’m completely changing what things are now. It’s that…” He shakes his head. “I want to get back to the man I was before. I need to.”

Kenma pauses, then nods once. “I’m listening.”

A strange shock of both relief and nerves goes through him. He puts his hands together, then takes them apart again because it feels too fake. He just holds his arms by his sides, unsure what to do with them, but it doesn’t matter. Kenma is only looking at his face.

“I’m sorry,” he starts. “I mean—I really apologize. I’ve been awful to you, to my team, and to myself. I understand that now. I understand the things I’ve done and the way I’ve…” He looks down, but forces himself to look back up. “Used certain parts of people for my own benefit.” He swallows thickly. “I don’t want to do it anymore. I want to stop feeling like this, and I think that nobody can do that but me. I want to assure you that things will be different going forward. I’ll…I’ll relearn how to recognize everybody’s needs, including my own.” He looks directly into Kenma’s eyes even though it lands easily near the top of his list of most difficult things to do. “I’m letting him go,” he says. “I’m letting the past go because I care about y—”

He stops. That isn’t the point of this. This isn’t for Kenma—it’s for himself.

“It’s not about getting me back,” Kenma says evenly, as though he read his mind. He wouldn’t be surprised if Kenma could.

He exhales again, nodding. “Of course; I know that. Though I do care about you, and I’m sorry for embarrassing you all this time. But I mean that I’m letting it go because I care about _all_ of it. So that I can get better. As much as you wanted to change me, or Kei did, or Daichi…” He brings his hand up to push at his hair and finds it shaking again. “As much as any of you wanted it, it had to be my decision. Even before, I’ve never been all that good at listening—to my parents when I was little, or to my high school advisor when she said culinary school wasn’t my best idea, or to Bo when he pointed to Akaashi and told me that what they have is what this should be.” He swallows again. “Or to myself when I tried to logically say that everything would be all right. That’s something else I can change for the better. _I_ want to.”

He stops, pauses. Nods. His throat still feels full of words, but he can’t figure out what they’re trying to say. He has never been good at saying the right things either, at expressing himself correctly, but he’s certainly been better at it before than he is now. He can get back there.

Kenma thinks for what feels like ages. Kuroo stands there listening to Blue, remembering that this isn’t his pantry, that Kenma is wearing the wrong uniform and thinking that he’s much better suited to black. That the way the light rests easily on Kenma’s face reminds Kuroo of a warm-toned version of the moonlight through his bedroom window that night they were together, and he has to push it from his mind.

Kenma says, “I ac—”

“And what I said,” Kuroo interrupts suddenly. He makes an apologetic face and puts his hands up. “Before. About you…only expressing irritability and apathy—I’m sorry. What you are is levelheaded and mature, and you only felt that way because of how I was acting. And that all I know is turning what I feel into anger because it was easy. I ought to learn from you. I ought to learn from all of my team. You all have innate good in you and that was why I chose you all. I just…lost mine, somewhere along the line.”

Kenma looks up at him. “I’m sorry about what I said during that conversation, too. I think it hurt so much for both of us because we were both a little bit right about the other.”

Kuroo nods and looks down. “Yeah.”

“But I am levelheaded, and I take a long time to think and make decisions because my problems deserve that time.”

“I’m sor—”

“And _you_ have the capacity for a lot of emotions,” Kenma tells him. “We all do. That’s what makes things difficult and us human. I think it’s expression that’s the hard part.” He brushes at the sides of his hair and Kuroo watches it fall back like silk from his fingers. “My friends have told me that before. I guess that’s something we could both work on.”

A certain weight releases itself from Kuroo’s back. He sighs again, lowers his head, and says, “Forgive me. The restaurant is all I have.”

“No it’s not,” Kenma says, and when Kuroo looks at him again, he says, “You have all of us.”

“Kenma,” he breathes.

Kenma stays where he is. “I accept your apology. I hope that you’re telling the truth—”

“I am. I swear.”

“—and that you’ll show yourself and not just say the words. In the end, the only person you have anything to prove to is you.”

Kuroo’s legs feel weak. He could fall to his knees. “Okay,” he says. “I will work to do that.”

Kenma nods, and the light flickers in his eyes. “That’s good, Tetsurou.”

So Kuroo waits, hoping that Kenma will say something more—to bring up what he’s desperate to hear. But it’s wrong of him to wait when Kenma is waiting for _him_ to do so. He clears his throat and says, trying not to mumble, “Will you come back? To my restaurant?”

Kenma hums. “I don’t think Oikawa-san ever expected that I would stay for long.”

Kuroo looks at him with wide eyes. It feels too easy, like Kenma is accepting too soon, but Kenma doesn’t need to say out loud that he won’t hesitate to walk out of Tiger’s Eye again—for good this time—should Kuroo not keep this promise. This is his true last chance. One life left.

He asks, “Tonight?”

“No.”

He shuts his mouth. “Right.”

Kenma tucks his hair behind his ear. “I’ll finish tonight with Oikawa-san. He mentioned that when it happened, he’d like me to finish out service, and I don’t think he ought to have asked anyway. Of course I will.”

Kuroo sighs and puts his hands on his hips. “I’ve become predictable.”

“That’s okay,” Kenma says, looking into his eyes. “I like predictability.”

Something in Kuroo’s chest starts to swell.

“Besides,” Kenma says. “My friends are here tonight and I’m serving them.”

“Your friends?”

“My roommate and his boyfriend. Red hair, bigger build.”

Kuroo flashes back to the grin when he walked into Blue. He’d put a lot on that one being the fabled roommate. For some reason, when Kenma mentioned his roommate before, he had imagined someone more like Kageyama or Kei, or Oikawa’s sous. “Oh. Got it.”

“Mm.” Kenma faces the shelf again. “I will be at Tiger’s Eye tomorrow no later than three.” Before Kuroo can reply, he says, up on his toes and reaching, “I’m going to apologize to Chef for interrupting his service, and you should too.” He turns around with a glass container of Himalayan salt.

Kuroo frowns, digging his fingertips into his hips. The last thing he wants to do is apologize to Oikawa, but Kenma is right. “I will. I think I owe him something, too.” He averts his eyes and mumbles, “And you should just call him Oikawa. Not Chef.”

In the corner of his eye, he thinks he catches Kenma smiling just a little bit, but his mind could be playing tricks on him. When he looks to see, Kenma says, “Bring something with you tomorrow. Fix things.” He starts to walk out of the pantry.

“Kenma,” Kuroo says for no reason that he can think of.

“And thank you for coming here,” Kenma says, turning to him, “but please get back to Tiger’s Eye. Bokuto is probably trying to stage a coup.”

Kuroo feels a smile pulling onto his lips. Bokuto once said that exact same thing to him, not too long ago. Maybe Kenma is like Akaashi—he knows them all too well. “Maybe he should.”

Kenma tilts his head. “And go talk to Tsukishima.”

The smile falls away. He swallows and nods. “Yeah. I will.”

Kenma nods back. “Tomorrow, Tetsurou.”

“Good night, Kenma.”

He watches Kenma disappear back out to the house. For a moment, he stays in the pantry, bringing a hand to his chest and breathing, letting his heart rate slow down.

_It will work. Something will work. The logistics, and…_

_You don’t have to be perfect—you just have to try. The rest will happen on its own._

When Daichi’s face flashes into his mind, he closes his eyes and imagines himself waving goodbye. When Daichi disappears and Kuroo turns back around, everybody from the restaurant is standing there waiting for him.

“Are you praying, Tiger-chan?”

Kuroo startles and opens his eyes. Oikawa is leaning in the doorway with his arms crossed, smiling at him. Kuroo sighs and rubs his face again. “Oikawa. Did you eavesdrop?”

“No.” He turns his nose up.

“You said that too confidently.”

“You’re in _my_ restaurant, Kuroo,” he says. “I’m just looking out for my own property. Kenma could have stabbed you or something, and it would have shut down my establishment for at least a day.”

Kuroo puts his fingers against his eyes. Suddenly he’s getting a headache. “Look. I apologize for interrupting your service.” He starts walking out.

Oikawa’s lips curl into a sly grin as he passes him through the threshold. “Yeah? Well, I really appreciate that. I love a man in deference.”

Kuroo frowns at him over his shoulder as Oikawa follows him back down the hall. “I’m not deferring to you.”

Oikawa laughs loudly, chin tilting up. He waves a hand. “I wasn’t talking about me.”

Kuroo pauses as they reach the back of the kitchen. He looks out into the house where Kenma is moving to a table, speaking in that gentle voice of his to the diners.

“So,” Oikawa says. “Where’s my return, Tiger-chan?”

Kuroo clenches his jaw.

When he finally escapes Oikawa and starts back out toward the front doors, he passes by the table of two again.

“Oi. Mister tiger exec.”

He stops, compelled, and turns to look at the redheaded roommate and the daunting boyfriend. He bows. “It’s nice to meet you. Kenma has told me about you.”

A sharp, dyed brow raises above a lidded eye. “Has he?”

Kuroo glances at the boyfriend, silent in his seat, before looking back. “Yes, he has. He considers you very close to him.”

A hum accompanies his elbows placed on the table and his chin on his laced fingers. “He’s told us a lot about you, too.”

A warm flush creeps up Kuroo’s neck. He puts his hands together in front of him. “Kenma is someone I have come to deeply respect. He also has a deep appreciation for you and your relationship with him, and that has helped to show me…the meaning in a lot of things.” He bows low, hands on his thighs. “Forgive me for the trouble I’ve caused him. I’m working to make up for it. I’ll prove it to him, to you, and to your friends.”

He stands as the roommate smiles easily and says, “I appreciate it. Do your best.”

Kuroo nods, looking him in the eyes. “I will. You can expect the truth from me from here on out.”

He returns through the back door so as not to disturb his house yet again. He makes his way to the kitchen, straightening his jacket, nervous to face his chefs.

He takes a few steps in, and they look up from their work. The difference in the air feels strange, tense in a certain way and foreign to him. Or, perhaps, just something he hasn’t felt in almost a year.

Bokuto looks him up and down, then allows half of a smile and the words, “Close enough.”

Kuroo clears his throat and says, “Everyone. Tomorrow…” He trails off, unsure how to say it. “Things will be back to normal,” he says. “To how they should be. Or…at least starting to.”

Terushima breaks the tension by sighing dramatically. “Good. That’s what we were hoping for.” He offers one of his usual, casual smiles. Iwaizumi nods once, and Kei pushes up his glasses.

The feeling swells in Kuroo’s chest again. He shifts his gaze and says, “Kageyama.” His _pâtissier_ looks him in the eyes. “I’m sorry about earlier.”

Bokuto’s eyebrows lift just the slightest, and Iwaizumi does a single, quiet laugh.

“Of course, Chef,” Kageyama says, bowing his head.

“What did he do to you over there?”

Kuroo looks over to Ennoshita—leaning an elbow onto the pass, smiling smugly—and sighs. “Careful, Chikara.” Ennoshita snorts. Kuroo pushes his hair back from his temple at his left side. “Will you all do without a sous chef for a second?”

Kei gazes over at him.

“Looks like I’m in charge, then,” Bokuto says, lifting his knife onto his shoulder with a grin.

Kuroo smiles a little bit too. “The rest of you, try not to overthrow me in the next five minutes.”

Terushima laughs and salutes him with a spoon. “No promises, Chef.”

Kuroo turns his gaze to meet golden eyes that he’s looked into a million times before and never appreciated like he should have. “Kei?”

Kei tilts his head toward the hall. “Back room.”

“Take my office,” Akaashi says, appearing on the other side of the pass with a platter. “And don’t be too long.” He lands keen, dark eyes on Kuroo. “You two have a kitchen to run.”

Kuroo closes the office door behind them, shutting out the rest of the restaurant. He turns to Kei where he stands in the middle of the room and says, “Hey.”

“Hey?”

“Sorry.” He sighs and touches his hair again. “I’m not good at doing speeches.”

“I don’t need you to give me one.”

“Well, I have to say something,” Kuroo says firmly. When Kei looks at him again, he tries to relax his shoulders down. There are a lot of things he could say, and a lot that he should—things he neglected to say for the past two years with Kei close to him as a person, and all three with Kei standing by his side as a chef. What ends up coming out, in a softer voice than he expected, is, “Thank you for being such a good person to me when I’ve never been one to you.”

Kei blinks, then looks sideways. “That’s not true. Sometimes—”

“Sometimes isn’t good enough.”

Kei stares at him.

“I appreciate you, Kei. And…” He sighs again. “I appreciate you being there. Both when I was still with Daichi and shouldn’t have been—when I should have been strong enough to allow him to go find someone better suited to his life—and afterward when I wasn’t. You stuck by me and I repaid you with fights and,” he shakes his head, “shitty feelings.”

Kei’s eyebrows go up. “Wow. I’m…actually impressed.” He crosses his arms.

“I’m trying,” Kuroo says quietly. “I’m no good at words.”

“They’re good enough for me,” Kei says. Kuroo stares back. “Thank you for that. For the effort it took to realize those things.”

“I don’t want to leave off where we did at my house,” Kuroo says. “I mean—not on that foot. I just…I’m sorry. For treating you the way I have. I went through something that made me emotional, though it’s not an excuse for how I’ve been with you. Or…for what I’ve done with you.”

Kei’s head tilts slowly, just slightly, to the side. Kuroo watches the light overhead slide across his lenses in a bright slash, crossing paths with his pupils before revealing them again. He says, “You’re really coming back.”

Kuroo straightens his shoulders. “I’m sorry. I’ll kneel if it will prove my sincerity.”

Kei pauses, and Kuroo stands there, ready to let his knees buckle underneath him. But Kei shakes his head. “Kuroo Tetsurou doesn’t kneel to anybody. Apology accepted.”

_Forgive me. I need your forgiveness._ “And, selfishly…” He swallows. “I need to know if you resent me.”

Kei tilts his head the other way. “Sure. Somewhat.”

It pains him, a small but deep scratch into his insides. “Oh.”

“I did give up everything for you.”

“I’m—”

“But that was my choice,” Kei adds. “And if I regret it, it’s my fault.”

It’s the same thing Kenma said to him. Everybody around him is mature and in touch with themselves. While it humiliates him that he hasn’t been the same, it simultaneously offers him a great opportunity to learn.

“It was wrong of me to put it all on you like that,” Kei says. “I’m the one who fell for you.” Kuroo doesn’t know what to say, and he must make some kind of face because Kei laughs and says, “Jesus, Tetsurou, stop acting like I’m drilling holes into you. We were both aware, it was just that neither of us wanted to stop it because it was…” He shrugs. “Pretty good.” He looks into Kuroo’s eyes. “It was nice. Even after things changed back then and it was just us, and we didn’t have to be secret, and you fell into yourself. You still made me feel so many things. It was nice.”

Kuroo stares back, speechless.

“While we had it,” Kei says. “I don’t regret a moment of the time I’ve spent with you.”

“I don’t either,” Kuroo says insistently. “I did like you, you know. I do. I just…”

Kei nods. “I know. I only resent parts of you because you’re making me resent my own choices and actions. It’s embarrassing, and I’m ashamed of myself in some way. You’re messy.”

“I am. I’m—”

“Working on it. Consciously.” Kei smiles a little. It’s something he rarely does, but each time, since they met, it has made Kuroo happy. “I know,” Kei says. “I can tell.” He sighs again, gently this time, and his voice comes out just as easy. “Don’t worry about it so much, Tetsurou. You’ll ruin your face with stress lines.”

Kuroo blinks. “You’re forgiving me.” He can barely get the words out.

“Of course I am. We care about each other.”

Kuroo nods. “I do. I meant what I said—that I wouldn’t want another sous chef. The pride I take in being able to call you a member of my brigade is insurmountable.”

“I know. That you meant it. I take equal pride in being here with you.” He takes a deep breath and exhales, shifting on his feet. “Now tell me to get back to work before Akaashi gets mad at us.”

The feeling swelling in Kuroo’s chest finally reaches its full warmth and spreads evenly throughout his limbs to the tips of his fingers. He smiles as Kei adjusts his glasses again. “Right. Let’s go finish this service.”

Kei nods back. “Yes, Chef.”

…

Early Monday morning, when Kenma returns home from his shift at Blue, his black uniform is cleaned, ironed, and hanging on the door to the bathroom.

He finds his phone and calls Tendou.

“Stopped by after dinner before heading back to the condo,” Tendou says right when he picks up. His voice is hushed; Wakatoshi is probably asleep next to him.

“I suppose you talked to him,” Kenma says.

“Briefly. Even Waka got all right vibes,” Tendou answers. “He seemed genuine in what he said. And if he wasn’t, my offer to scatter him around Tokyo still stands. Besides, blue is really not your color.”

The simplicity of his words—that gentle teasing and total lack of judgement, as always—gives Kenma his safe place to fall once again, even with Tendou missing from the apartment itself. “I’ll be holding off for a while,” he says. “Just working. Waiting. It isn’t set with him yet, but I want to be back in my restaurant.”

“Good for you,” Tendou says. “Demand it all but ask for nothing. Now have some tea and sleep. I think I’m waking Waka up.”

“Do you think I’ve made the right choice?” Kenma asks a little quicker than he meant to.

Even through the line, he can feel the tilt of Tendou’s head. “Do you think you have?”

Kenma looks into the dim of the kitchen. His favorite red mug is sitting out on the counter with a bag of chamomile already in it, the string looped around the handle so it won’t fall in when he pours the water. He imagines Tendou placing it there as a last-second favor before leaving with Wakatoshi again.

He smiles and sighs, and as though he answered out loud, Tendou says, “Then so do I.”

* * *

**HC: Oikawa is an old acquaintance of Kuroo, Akaashi, and Bokuto. He went to the same high school for two years until moving to Buenos Aires, Argentina, where he studied abroad for Spanish language. He currently tests native-like in writing, speaking, and reading and listening comprehension. His speech is impeccable, including suprasegmental features like terminal juncture and rhythm, and paralinguistic features such as gesture and discourse pragmatics.**

**Following high school graduation, he attended his culinary program in the same city. By the time of completion, he had plans already in effect to move back home to Japan to start a restaurant of his own with one of his friends who had recently completed a degree in hospitality management, and who was already working with remodelers in the city and corresponding with Oikawa about the further details of the interior of their new location. Upon hearing word of the opening of another restaurant in the same ward by an old classmate, he left Argentina a week early so he could make it to Tiger’s Eye’s opening service. The chef’s table was already reserved, but he managed to snag a table for two at 10:30 thanks to already knowing Akaashi, (the best of his three former classmates, in his opinion), who took his call and gave him a spot on the basis of familiarity. He and Yahaba stayed until service ended, and they hung behind for a few minutes to talk to Kuroo and share their current plans: the actual digital model for Blue itself—to be opened in four months’ time.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _C’est dommage_ : What a shame./Too bad.


End file.
